Branded
by Azrael Gaunt
Summary: SSHP Harry realizes that in order to survive, he must take this war into his own hands. The Light, he decides, cannot win without making sacrifices. He will stop at nothing to be the last one standing, even if that means beating Voldemort at his own game and joining the Death Eaters, unbeknownst to all, as a spy. Oddly, his experience leads to love between an unlikely pair.HIATUS
1. Chapter One

General Summary: Harry feels he is deprived of the knowledge he needs to win this war. Tired of being treated like a child, he makes the decision to take matters into his own hands. Prepared or not, he has made a vow to eliminate Voldemort from the Wizarding World, even if that means he has to join the Dark Lord's ranks just to defeat him.

Pairing: SS/HP (main)  
Genres: Romance, Adventure/Action, Drama

Warnings: Dark themes, language, explicit content, homosexual romance, lemon, heterosexual relationships, OOC, OC, AU, violence, torture, not beta'd (whoops haha)

Rating: M (possibly NC-17+), most likely not appropriate for those underage. I may post "unacceptable content" on another archive and make that accessible to the readers when that time comes in the story.

Verse: Book, 6th Year AU

Disclaimer: I own nothing really. All familiar HP plot, characters, themes, etc. belong to JKR, scholastics, WB, and other companies that I do not know the name of! This story is not written for anything but pleasure—no money…

_Author's note: HI! So, I have been suffering from writer's block for a long time and I decided. Enough. I must progress. I had a version of "Branded" up on the web a while ago, but I didn't like where it was going, so I deleted it and I am completely re-doing it. Surprise. Same summary, completely different story. First chapters will be slow going, because that's just how it is...sorry. Got to introduce everything somehow! I would love some feedback. _

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॥ ୡ **_B_**_rande**d** _ୡ ॥

Chapter One

Number Four Privet Drive, on any day, stood more stable than its occupants. The paint on the house was evenly laid without cracks or air pockets. The windows were wiped down, crystal and pristine. The flowerbeds were meticulously pruned; no weed would dare sink its lethal, parasitic veins into the earth below. Yes, the house was lovely. It was beautiful, but Heaven take notice that it was no more beautiful than its neighboring twins. Number Four was happily not one of a kind. It mirrored, it matched, it fit in.

With its cookie-cutter appearance, not a fly in the world would ever assume it to be anything but the home of a mundane family—the dwelling den of ordinary, every-day English people.

Petunia Dursley huffed delicately through her nose. Her lips pursed as she inspected her prided and beloved home from driveway to rooftop. She had a perfect house, along with a perfect husband and a perfect son. Yet, despite how she lived her perfect life with perfection from year to year, a bitter shadow nipped perfectly at her heels, following her with each step her family took like a stalking evil.

The truth was, no matter how common Number Four Privet Drive looked on the outside, it was the home to anything but. It was home to not a family, but to prisoners.

Number Four survived on the family taught reassurance that one day, its inhabitants would be free.

Petunia often battled off the urge to weep for her family's misfortune. She, her lover, and their child functioned with invisible shackles, binding their freedom with anchors and chains that left their souls heavy and abused and open to the manipulation of the Devil's greatest power.

Magic.

Oh, how Petunia detested _magic._

How was any good family supposed to enjoy their well-earned lives when _magic_ wreaked havoc in the heart of their home?

Closing the car's trunk, she fastened her hands on a basket of groceries and led herself to the front door. As she fumbled for her keys, she let her eyes fall to the doorstep beneath her feet. Her heart heavy, she sneered at it with contempt. She often had fantasies of the carefree life she could have possibly lived if she had let the baby Albus Dumbledore plopped into her care freeze to death in the cold November wind on that fateful Wednesday of 1981.

But, what good was it to dwell on past mistakes? She did not need to remind herself of the horrors she condemned herself to.

Jostling the key, she used her shoulder to push inside. As she stepped forward, she let the door close behind her and dropped the basket at the foot of the stairs before beginning to climb them. She sighed and gripped the railing. Now would be a good time for a warm shower. Vernon would be home with Dudley soon and they would gather for a nice meal made of the fresh vegetables she bought from the market.

Finally at the top of the stairs, her brown eyes looked purposefully and fiery at Dudley's second bedroom. The door was padlocked, locked, with a catflap at the base.

No, her eyebrows pinched and she wrinkled her nose. She did not need to remind herself of her mistake, especially not when the mistake grew and festered like a tapeworm, indulging itself in her home, taking half of everything her family owned without right.

"Boy!" she screeched, not hiding the acid built up over the past fifteen years that dripped and decayed her words with hate. "Get up! Now! Dinner will be punctually at six. I'll not have my meal late because you believe you're too good to repay us for our kindness."

She did not look when the freak answered her call. She never looked at him nowadays, for the fear that she would lose herself and strike him for the pain his existence weighed on her family. The boy was the manifestation of her mistake. She should have let him rot. But, no. The goodness of her heart had taken him in, yet he did not repay her with anything but devastation. Her husband and son lived in trepidation of the freakishness that pumped wildly through his veins. Would he lose control of his freakish abilities and pulverize them, turn them to ash, and eradicate their souls? Was his freakishness contagious, would they contract it like radon poisoning from long term exposure or would it slowly creep into their cells and pile up like cancer? Would his freakish friends seek them out and destroy them for being normal? There were too many risks. The Dursleys could not live in peace—not with the boy's existence interrupting their own.

She heard him clumsily trot down the stairs and into the kitchen. Soon enough she would hear the ringing of pots and pans, she coughed. He was as ungraceful as he was abnormal.

Petunia was the backbone of her family. She tried to do all she could to protect them. She had locked the boy's freakish toys and satanic books in the cupboard, making sure his wand was hidden in some unreachable area of his cursed trunk. No _magic_ would contaminate her loved ones.

And she vowed on her life, that one day she would reverse her mistake. If the time ever came when she once more held the boy's fate in her palm, she would not be merciful. No hell hath fury like a woman scorned: if Petunia Dursley had the chance to liberate herself from these shackles, she would strike with the lightning speed of a serpent.

If she was given the power to choose between life and death… well, for Lily's devil spawn, death would be the only option.

॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥ ୡ॥

Harry was thankful that his Aunt had stew in mind for tonight's dinner. With the relentless fatigue curling around his muscles, he doubted he could manage much else.

He emptied the basket, one green at a time, before lining them up and snatching a sharp knife from the drawer below the sink. He chopped, and diced, and minced. In a few minutes, the vegetables were prepared and seasoned with a few teaspoons of salt and pepper. Now, he only had to wait for the chicken stock to boil.

His chest heaved a sigh and his body tipped forward to lean against the cool kitchen cabinet. He spotted his own reflection in the window above the sink and could have sworn he saw Death himself. He did not look so good. He was unsure if it was the yearly starvation he underwent at his 'home' during the summer or if he had finally reached the end of puberty's path, but his face had thinned, revealing prominent cheekbones that he supposed would have looked better if his hair was not plastered to them with sticky sweat.

He combed his fingers through his lengthened hair. It had gotten longer since Molly had cut it for him the summer before last, curling around his chin and cupping the nape of his neck. A smile played on his lips as he imagined how eager Ron's mother would be to snip it back into shape for his upcoming sixth year.

He twirled a lock of ebony hair around his pointer, giving it a tug to wake himself up. He was going to pass out, he swore.

He dared not look into his reflection long enough to see his eyes ringed with black exhaustion. Harry already knew that he looked like shit. He could bloody feel it. The poor boy had not gotten a wink of peaceful slumber since he returned from the Department of Mysteries the previous year.

He frowned as the amber liquid in the pot on the stove bubbled and pushed the escarole in first.

At first it had just been nightmares of Sirius, of the prophecy, of feeling Voldemort possess his mind. But, then he found himself dreaming dreams of people he had never seen before. And, Merlin forbid he could ever have a dream without Voldemort.

He dumped in the carrots and celery, reaching to grab a box of pasta that hid on top of the refrigerator. He shook the box, peering inside. Bowtie pasta. He thought twice about adding them to the soup. Dudley had come to the conclusion that bowtie pasta was solely meant for marinara sauce earlier that year.

He laughed softly, bowties? Noodles? Same ish. By the time Dudley recognized the shape of the noodles, it would be too late. He would stuff his face before he used his brain. He added them in with a smugness warming his gut.

His scar tingled.

"Ugh." Harry grumbled, not even bothering to sooth it with his palm.

His scar pain was becoming part of the scenery. Every night, he could feel it flare. Sometimes it would tickle, other times it would burn, and a few times, he had been sure it was going to explode. It all corresponded with the dreams, he concluded. The intensity of his visions regulated the pain in his scar…or was it the other way around?

Harry added the rest of the ingredients to the pot and with a burst of energy, set the table. He tried to keep his blank and clear of thought for the next twenty five minutes. It was not exactly Tibetan meditation, but he hoped that some silence would ease the headache beginning to swell at his temples. He tasted the soup a few times to check for consistency and flavor and his hands were dusted in herbs by the time he finally decided that it was ready for consumption. It smelled delicious.

He brought the heat down to low on the stove, leaving his masterpiece to simmer. Glancing at the clock, he felt relief ease his shoulders when he discovered it was ten to six. Perfect timing! He quickly made a ham sandwich, cleaning away the evidence he had even gone near the bread or cold cuts. He wrapped it in a paper towel and filled a glass of tap water for himself, before jogging carefully up the stairs and into his summer living space.

Harry barely flinched when the door was locked behind him from the outside. He was used to it. Petunia was keeping an abnormally close surveillance on him this summer. For what reason? He knew not why. He just guessed that perhaps she was just sensing his tenseness and reflected it back to him.

She would never be fond of him. He already accepted that fact. So, her smoldering glares and insults left him unfazed.

Harry remembered that at one point, he had feared his relatives. Being a child, locked in a cupboard and subjected to the endless supply of violence and hatred the Dursleys had for him used to bring him to tears. He remembered having fits in his cupboard, banging on the door, screaming apologies for things he never understood how he was the culprit for. He remembered trying his best to make his Aunt and Uncle proud of him; he remembered wasting energy on wanting to be wanted.

Harry remembered a myriad of things, yet he had come to a grand decision a week ago: he had to let go of the past. He had to let history be just that. He could not keep letting the past bind him and suppress him from moving forward.

The depression caused by his relatives, the fire he felt from Draco Malfoy's insults, the rage brought on by Sirius' death, the anger resulted from Voldemort killing his parents.

All of it had to go.

He used to believe that all of those emotions could be used as motivation for ending this war. But, now he had proof if he used any of these emotions as a means to fuel him, they would fail him. He remembered how infuriated he had been with Bellatrix for sending his Godfather to the realm of death behind the Veil, where souls were tortured in a less than golden afterlife. He remembered how he chased her down and how he focused on the pure, raging ire that lit his heart on fire when he raised his wand and screamed his first Unforgivable curse in her direction.

He had wanted to see her body curl and writhe in boundless pain for the evil deed she had done. She sent an innocent man to the grave. His last family member. How could he not want to punish her?

But, the thing was. Harry had been thinking this summer. He had nothing to do but think. And the more he thought, the more he discovered.

The curse never hit Bellatrix. It fizzled out of his wand, wilting like an uncared for mandrake, too weak to even shoot out a meter in front of him. And Bellatrix had snarled and cackled with mocking joy.

The curse failed.

This alone, he decided, proved that revenge was not enough motivation to aid him in completing the task that fate rested upon his shoulders—a task that he now realized was a severe reality.

Harry had sat in Dudley's second bedroom for four days pondering how if he could not use his anger to cast a simple _Crucio_ on a woman who had killed one of his own, how could he cast the Killing Curse on Voldemort, a man who had killed dozens of his own? Anger had been his primary energy source, even before he was introduced to the magical beauty of Hogwarts. Where anger had gotten him before had been a result of sheer, dumb luck.

As proven with Bellatrix, anger would not be sufficient in bringing the Dark Lord's downfall. When the time came that he would have Tom Riddle on the other side of his wand, it could not be just be anger that powered his _Avada Kedevra_. Or else, it too, would fail and he would have more than just twisted amusement as aftermath.

But, what, if not anger, had the potential to push a human being to his limits and give him the strength to do the impossible?

He had an inkling feeling that his Headmaster would say love.

And love, Harry had discerned was a force to be reckoned with. Love was what saved his own life, when Lily Potter had sacrificed herself for her baby boy.

And love, Harry decided, had gone out of style. He wanted so much to think that love could be something that he could hold onto in his times of desperation. Yet, stories of havoc and bloodshed dominated the Prophet's pages, Harry had to wonder. Love was not tangible enough for him. Love was not prominent in the Death Eater raids, the survivors did not speak tales of how love had helped them pick themselves off the ground with their limbs showered in blood and torn ligaments. Survivors did not preach of how love gave them the power to heave the last bit of their consciousness into blasting their attacker into oblivion.

They spoke of self-preservation.

Perhaps it was very Slytherin of him, but what Harry had begun to see was that if anything could help him win this war, it was self-preservation. Love was great for protection, yet he had no desire to protect Voldemort. He was expected to annihilate him and not die in the process.

Self-preservation. It was not something he had much of before.

The term was nearly foreign to his Gryffindor senses. He had always barreled into battle like a firecracker: without hesitance or direction. He had never cared about risking his own life, he had not cared about the possibility of being injured. But, Harry had never been in a war before. He had only faced Voldemort in weakened states where the man was not truly at his full potential. And when war time commenced, if Harry shot forward like a rocket, he would not make it to the finish line. He realized that if he attempted to go out into a field of a million Death Eaters, even all the Gryffindor courage in the world would not save him from being chewed and spat out by every dark curse known to man before he could even locate Voldemort at the back of the pack.

Harry had to start thinking about himself. The prophecy confirmed that he was the only one who could defeat Voldemort and it had stated the cold truth that Voldemort could very well defeat him.

Harry did not want to die. He felt as if he had barely been given a chance to live. He wanted a life without Voldemort and without war or darkness. He wanted to have a family and live in peace. He wanted to travel the world, see the pyramids, have a taste of India, see the hole in the ozone layer. Hell! Harry wanted to walk outside without having to worry about assassination attempts.

If anger or love could not fuel him, then thinking about saving his own arse should.

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It was that very night that Severus Snape sat in his quarters in the Hogwarts dungeons. He knew instinctively that outside the hot, humid summer night was warming the castle, but here, in his rooms, it felt cold.

He hummed thoughtfully, counting down the minutes before he would be compelled to join Albus for a blasted tea party.

The fireplace across from him crackled and snapped, its glistening embers lighting up a bottle of firewhiskey he had planted on the coffee table before him. He had made plans to enjoy a fine glass of the cherished Wizarding alcohol of choice before he had to leave, but the longer he sat still in silence, the less he felt the desire to indulge. Truth be told, he did not think the burning whiskey would ease his unsettled stomach.

Severus was not a seer. In fact, he had never been gifted in the fine art of Divination—mainly because he had never felt an unquenchable thirst to scrutinize the secrets left behind in discarded tea. No, Severus had never quite unlocked his third eye, but he had a knack for feeling things coming.

Something was not right.

He was unsure as to what in the universe had suddenly broken Gaia's homeostasis, yet he felt an incessant kneading in his gut that told him something significant was going to happen.

What though? The answer, he was not knowledgeable of. Whether the occurrence would be for the good or the bad, this he knew not as well. He simply felt it quaking in the marrow of his bones that whatever it was, it was big and would take place soon.

And it was certainly not tea with Albus.

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_A/N: Sorry the first chapter is so short and possibly boring...like I said, I had to introduce it somehow ^_^! PLEASE, review._


	2. Chapter Two

_Summary, warnings, pairings, dislaimer...all located in first chapter and continue to apply to the entire story. _

_A/N: Still not beta'd. Sorry for any mistakes...XD This is going to be a long story, methinks. Hope it's a good read! Thanks to the two people that reviewed the first chapter and to those who faved/alerted. It's very appreciated. I feel very rusty._

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॥ ୡ **_B_**_rande**d** _ୡ ॥

Chapter Two

Severus was well trained enough that when in the Dark Lord's presence, he knew his manners. He did not speak unless spoken to. He did not move unless prompted. He did not breathe out of sync for caution that it would not tickle the man's fancy.

The neophytes, however, were not nearly as experienced as he. They did not know their place in the gatherings and each dredged about with their robes tangling in their feet and their masks falling down their greased faces as they tried to push forward within the crowd, eager to be in the Dark Lord's line of view with purest hopes of catching his attention. What a pity.

They would learn.

Humans, if anything, were adaptable.

Severus, with his wand gripped in his right hand firmly, sneered behind cool iron. With four long strides, he pushed his way to the center.

As he settled into position, he let his eyes rake around the room. Death Eater meetings were arranged in a thoughtful ring. The shape, he believed, was adopted to make every member feel as if they were included, but like all material the Dark Lord concocted, it was a manipulation. The circle was a food-chain; it told you who was whom and what your place was on the hierarchy of trust. But, as Severus stood firmly in the first row, he spitefully noted that just because you stood with no one before you, did not mean you were any more secure than the fumbling idiot at the back by the wall. Everyone was in danger when the Dark Lord was present, and if you were under the naïve misconception that he might think twice before killing you, your days were numbered and you were likely to meet death prematurely creeping upon your shoulder. Contrary to rumour, the Dark Lord did not take favourites. Everyone was replaceable.

Severus observantly noted that their numbers had increased by one-sixth since the last meeting and as he saw the lanky forms of gangly teens, he felt an odd, sickening spell cast in the back of his throat. _Children_, he snorted darkly.

No one was immune to the Dark Lord's persuasive preaching and sermons of restoring the integrity of the honorable old world Wizarding society. His decorated delusions of grandeur were swaddled in sweet, oozing honey, attracting every wasp from nests near and far. Even those with the strongest Light leniency faced a day when they considered Lord Voldemort's goals. And how could they not? If his milked words did not win you, then his megalomania and reputation of bloodlust did.

He remembered when the Dark Lord was choosy with his followers. The man used to deliberately seek out those with talent or status or wealth. This is how he had come to obtaining an elite selection of worshipers, such as the Malfoys, The Lestranges, and the Blacks…Severus himself had been considered a hot commodity in his young age. Extremely gifted in the divine craft of potion making, he had been accepted by the Dark Lord for his rare abilities.

But, now? Nothing of the sort existed. As Lord Voldemort became more impatient and restless, he discarded the process of evaluating Death Eaters. He did not have a preference as to what they could do and how well they could do it. He had no need for protégées in lost arts. He only had need for bodies.

He needed an army.

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_Harry,_

_I am pleased to hear that you are faring well; in fact, I do so hope that you take advantage of the adventures that summer has to offer. The year passed quite turbulently, with more heavy complications than perhaps most of us were prepared. If you need anything or nothing, feel free to contact me. I often find that when one lends an ear to those in need of being heard, we can heal faster than magic allows. And now, with the young Misters Weasley's product, I can offer more ear than one! Quite pleasant indeed!_

_A vacation is always needed for those who deserve them. _

_Sincerely, _

_Albus Dumbledore_

_PS. We are all fine here, Harry. Your friends are enjoying their summer without disturbance and the only lamentable detail I can pinpoint is that the lemon drops I usually purchase are currently out of stock. _

It was the fifth letter of the kind that Harry had received since the end of the term.

With a burning frustration, Harry let out an exasperated roar and halfheartedly tossed the parchment aside.

"Yes. Sure. Everything is just bloody fine and dandy! Sweet of me to ask!" He chirped with a false flippancy.

Harry one-hundred percent knew that things were not 'all fine' in the Wizarding World. Dumbledore would send him letters in place of Ron and Hermione, both of whom were advised earlier that year that any owl communication was too risky to be considered this season, and these letters, Harry observed, were full of nothing.

He felt isolated.

Harry wanted desperately to know what was happening. He wanted to hear what the Order was planning, he wanted the death tally, he wanted to know what the bleeding hell was going on.

_The Prophet_ was his only link to the real world. It was the only resource he could rely upon to inform him on what ghastly events struck in the past few days—and a biased resource it was. _The Prophet_, despite the fact that it was the most popular and preferred newspaper, was most certainly full of histrionic rubbish brought on, no doubt, by the authoress Rita Skeeter. Harry read _The Prophet_ like an addict, but the newspaper only told so much. He could easily see that the Ministry had put a limit to the amount of information released to the public. All details of attacks were censored. Only the skeleton of the story was provided, if lucky. Stories of Death Eater raids that had once been four pages long were now cut down to eight short paragraphs that spoke of a vague description of the event: where it had been located, and possibly who had been targeted. If Voldemort had been spotted, it was not recorded and there was a pattern to his attacks, no one drew the connection.

How was he supposed to fight a war when he knew nothing of his enemy? It made no sense. And Harry felt ill.

He felt guilty and, quite frankly, like a bloody, nervous wreck.

If he had not known anxiety before, Harry was ready to say that he was now well acquainted. Harry wished that he knew what was going on in the Dark Lord's mind. What happened in his meetings? What did he plot of? Who would be his next victim and why? They were valid inquiries, especially in the light that if he remained unaware of them, he would not be properly prepared to fight.

What if Harry trained and trained? He could become a brilliant soldier. But, if Voldemort pulled something sneaky out of his pocket, game over. No one on the Light side could risk a wild card, definitely not when the Dark was growing larger in size.

Harry shivered, twisting on his creaky cot. He did not know how he knew, but he could feel Voldemort gaining followers. He had dreams—whether they were dreams or visions, he could not tell the difference—of Death Eater inaugurations. More and more people were slipping away to Voldemort's side out of fear.

The public, Harry concluded, was more lost than he was. If Harry felt like he was hiking through the Sahara with no water or civilization for miles, then the people of the Wizarding World must have felt like they were walking through the Artic with no sign of life for kilometers, not even a cactus.

At least Harry knew of the Order of the Phoenix. He knew that Dumbledore was working on tactics and strategies to defeat Tom, even if the plans were not shared. The public, on the other hand, knew nothing of the Light's rebellion. All they saw was dark magic. The only thing that assaulted their eyes were the elusive pages of _The Prophet_ that told scary summaries of Voldemort's attacks. If all the public could see was a-raid-this and a-raid-that or rest in peace so-and-so, then all they could see was Voldemort gaining power. There were no news articles of the Order of the Phoenix crashing a Death Eater shindig. They assumed the Light was stagnant, therefore one by one, they were beginning to flee to the side they hoped would grant them more life years.

Being uninformed was as detrimental as disease.

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The house was quiet today and the only thing that could be heard was the echoing of Harry's wire brush against the kitchen floor.

It was days like this that Harry lived for.

Sure, his hands were aching from swiping the bristles of a wooden brush against the dirty tiled floor of his Aunt's kitchen and the soapy water, doused with bleach, pruned and slightly stung the skin of his fingers, but the physical aspect of this had no impact on the tranquility in his soul.

The Dursleys were out for the day. Taking a walk or something, basking in the hot sun's rays, somewhere in a park three towns over. He had the house, and a list of chores, all to himself.

Harry was quite certain that Aunt Petunia was still under the impression that his belongings were stashed away in his old room. She was daft if she thought one little lock was going to ward him away from the only possessions he owned. It would have not been too arduous to pick the lock, but why would he waste the time, when the key was laying innocently next to the shower?

Harry had guessed that his Uncle, who usually put himself in charge of all keys pertaining to his freakish nephew, had forgotten to pocket it this morning.

So, for the past two weeks, Harry had developed quite the procedure while his relatives escaped to party outdoors. As soon as their car would pull out of the driveway, Harry would unlock his cupboard and dig in his trunk.

He had already taken out the most valuable items and put them aside, in easy access. His wand, his Gringott's vault key, the Marauder's Map, the shard left of Sirius' two way mirror, and his photo album were stashed underneath the loose floorboard near his bed, wrapped in his invisibility cloak for extra protection.

In his relatives' absence, he adopted a quiet, yet meticulous study plan of his own. Surprisingly, it was working. In just one week, he had so much time on his hands that he was half way finished his summer homework. He only had three more readings to go in Transfigurations and a three foot Potions essay left to complete. He could practically hear Hermione's voice cheering him on the entire way.

Homework was not the only thing he was doing, however. He had even shocked himself when after painting the fence one day, he curled up in the corner by his window with his DADA text in hand. He flipped through it for an hour, before reassuring himself that he knew everything in the book. After all, if there was one subject that Harry knew well, it was Defense. His Charms, he was depressed to confess, needed some tutoring. Hence, here he sat scrubbing the floor with his hands, his eyes glued to his Charms book.

Harry had been pleasantly left jaw-dropped at the plethora of usefulness that Charms provided. There was a charm for everything, he gathered. Interestingly, he had first nearly tossed the book across the room when he hit the chapter of _Charms for Household Orderliness_, but with a little imagination, he came to the conclusion that every charm could be adapted to battle. If he was stuck in a little rut with a Death Eater, he could cast a quick dicing charm at them and in two seconds flat, the ex-Death Eater would be diced like tomatoes for sauce.

Gory, true. But, useful!

As he stood to move on to vacuuming, the young man had a skip in his steps. Anxiety eased when he kept his mind occupied, and what better way to keep him busy than thinking of how to send Death Eaters to their maker?

Ron would approve.

Now, if only he had the opportunity to actually use his wand to practice…

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Tom Riddle hated loosing. Perhaps, it was childish to think of it that way, but Voldemort had no issue doing so. He had known from a young age that he was destined to succeed.

With every task that was launched his way, he conquered.

It was not confidence or arrogance that made him a winner. It was the fact that he was a worker that made him a winner.

See, he put the time in to understand things. Like a chess player knew the freedoms and limitations of his opponent's pieces, Voldemort knew the ins and outs of the Light Side. He knew the intricacies of the webs weaved by the Order. He knew what the Light wanted: he knew the extent of their abilities and how they dared to use them. He knew how Albus Dumbledore thought, he understood the old man's inner wheels to the point that he remained one step ahead of him.

And he knew this because he, himself, had painstakingly observed and analyzed them from all sources possible. He worked to understand.

Many people believed he sat around all day wasting away on a throne of jewels and skulls, calling his worshipers to answer his every beck and need, but that stood as a lie. Tom had worked for everything he received.

He dedicated his life fixing the errors around him. He had been born to make a difference.

The Dark Lord had been living in a dysfunctional world for as long as his memories dated. In the orphanage, where he had been subjected to pain and misery, he learned the way to overcome chaos and maintain order: influence.

Influence was key to flawless functioning and at a very young age, Tom had been exposed to the secret that knowledge was power and power was influence.

Anything could be overcome with knowledge, power, and influence. Even death.

And if death could be trampled, then so could Harry Potter.

The Dark Lord would enslave himself, for the next century if he had to, to acquire the knowledge to win this war. He would put in the effort required to breeze through this obstacle as he had all the other before him and in the end, he would defeat Potter.

Because as fearless and courageous as Potter was, he was not a worker. The boy would never take the time to understand his rival, and therefore would be left two steps behind.

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Draco Malfoy.

The damn ferret was a flea in his hair.

Harry was not exactly sure how he had come to the point that he was wasting his thoughts on Draco Malfoy, but he suspected that being locked in a bare room for four days could have some pretty nasty side-effects for anyone.

Vernon had found the key. Or, well, more accurately, he noticed it was missing.

And, of course, there was no possibility that the fat oaf could have misplaced it or that it could have fallen down the drain. No! Only one clear, obvious answer existed. Harry used his freakishness to make it disappear and had use some freaky incantation while the Dursleys slept ignorantly to unlock his voodoo from the cupboard and unleash it to ravage the house.

Absolutely logical.

Needless to say, since the key's mysterious disappearance, Harry had been shut away. The idiots had not even attempted to search him, as it would be most improper to touch his filth, and had failed to see that the key was in his pocket.

Harry felt thankful for once that his dirtiness had steered them away from him because lately, Vernon had been looking for trouble. The man had hovered over him with beady eyes for an entire day, speculating the manner in which he proceeded to finish his to-dos. Everything had been an issue and Vernon's temper began to flare. The beast looked murderous at any incident that involved his nephew.

Harry had been grateful to get away from his Aunt and Uncle's stares, even if that meant being locked up. Although, this sentiment had only lasted a day. Soon enough, he began to feel claustrophobic and with no text books to provide relief, he stared unblinkingly out the window, pretending to feel the soft, verdant grass on his toes.

Then, he had seen him. A blond muggle had strolled by and, at that minute, Harry was looking for an excuse to go ballistic. Seething wasted time.

So, now he was getting pissy all over the only blond bastard he knew. Malfoy.

On his fourth mental tirade about how Malfoy made his blood boil because the slimy creature was an arrogant pounce, he had to pause.

It occurred to him that not too long ago, he had made a pack with himself to let his anger go. Just because he had nothing to do did not justify breaking his promise for the greater good.

"Let go, Harry. Let go…" he felt the whisper ease past his lips and he closed his eyes to blissful darkness.

He frowned.

Why did he hate, Malfoy anyway? Because the prick was prejudice, craven, and narcissistic. He had insulted Ron without even knowing him and had no spine to be anything but his father's clone.

Harry began to fiddle with the floorboard by his foot. In all truth, if he thought about it, Harry awkwardly agreed that he knew next to nothing about Malfoy's personal life or innermost thoughts. Was it wrong of him to judge the Slytherin when he knew so little about him?

Harry's gaze fell on his wardrobe.

He tried to picture himself as Draco Malfoy. What would it be like to live the life of purebloods? To be doused in more wealth than necessary? To live lavishly in constant magic and be given everything he wanted as a child?

To be expected to take seat as a Voldemort boot-licker next to Malfoy Senior?

He bit his lip and felt pity for his rival. He wondered if Lucius spent hours training Draco like a dragon to perform tricks for his Lord-to-be. He wondered if Lucius sat drilling Draco on the Dark Lord's latest plans to capture and murder the infant that had defeated him.

Harry snorted. If that was the case, even Malfoy knew more than he did.

Harry sat up abruptly, his breath hitching. Actually, Malfoy probably knew more about the Dark Side's inner mechanics than even Dumbledore knew. It was only reasonable.

Death Eaters upped his Headmaster on what insanity was currently going on in the Dark Lord's mind because they were around Voldemort more. If Voldemort preached his plans to his followers so that they could do the dirty work, then it was without question that Death Eaters knew more than the average Joe about what was going on with this war.

This was why Snape was so invaluable to the Order. Without him, there would be no insight as to what moves the Dark would make next. Without moles planted on the other team, the Light walked blindly into battle.

Harry felt oddly deflated. It was a great dawning and all, but now that he realized who had the information he was looking for, he knew he had no shot at getting it. Snape, the git, would never agree to keep him posted on Death Eater events. Plus, Harry was not very fond of the bat in general. Something about his double-agent persona rubbed him the wrong way.

He sighed, "To stop them, you have to think like them. But…I could think all I wanted to and still get nowhere. The only way to know things for sure is to be in the action. To be one of them."

Feeling a headache coming on, Harry gripped his temples. It was going to be a long night.

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_A/N: Cough...slow going, but nicely done? Maybe? i really do feel rusty...Please **REVIEW**_...it only takes a second!

**_Review_**


	3. Chapter Three

_Summary, warnings, pairings, dislaimer...all located in first chapter and continue to apply to the entire story. _

_A/N: warning/spoiler: child abuse, still unbeta'd :P_

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Chapter Three

He sat alone.

The silence hanging in the atmosphere around him loomed gently, ringing in his ears as he looked up to give his eyes a rest. Scrutinizing over tiny font whirled and ingrained in ancient parchment was a straining task for anyone's pupils, even if they were already accustomed to years of long hour reading sessions.

He gazed upon the orderly mess in the room.

He would be patient, he decided, as always. After all, to craft a foolproof stratagem took meaningful hours and judicious planning.

A knock blew his thoughts off course.

"Enter." He rasped, eyes not moving to greet the man who invaded his study.

"My Lord." Lucius Malfoy inclined his head in a respectful manner.

Voldemort felt the corner of his lipless mouth upturn into a smirk. For as long as Lucius had served him, he had never seen the man flop before him in a ghastly bow. Always so proud and ever so preoccupied with his own reputation—it was a trait of the Malfoy genes that he had seen once in Abraxas and now in young Draco. The man would never degrade himself with such uncouth gestures, unlike the spineless lot that made up his lower-ranks.

Lucius straightened his graceful neck and corrected his posture. His platinum blond hair was tucked behind his nape and he was adorned in Death Eater attire, though his mask was absent in the private presence of his Lord, a common courtesy if you will. His aristocratic bone structure was sharp and well carved, and his eyes, just as cold and grey as the steel in his hand as they darted to Voldemort's forehead to give the impression of addressing him without fear.

Lucius was the polar opposite of a Gryffindor, yet for a Slytherin, he had his own brand of fortitude. In his younger years, Voldemort would have called it impudence, but as time went on, it was this behavior that imprinted a feeling of recognition inside of him. He did not adore Lucius Malfoy as the purebred public did. No, but the man had his respect.

Lucius took an elegant step forward and cocked a pale eyebrow as he spoke. "We have calculated anew the number of those who wish to join our cause, my Lord. With already over a dozen ready to actively engage in our activity, I have come to speak to you regarding another inauguration ceremony."

"So soon?" Voldemort asked, though it was not really a question and nor was his tone inquiring. He did not wait for a reply. "The fourth of October."

He waved his hand dismissively. "That will be all."

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Harry awoke in a contemplative mood. His dream the previous night was missing the usual blood and cruelty that had now become mundane in his visions and for that, he had been thankful. Yet, the vision of Voldemort reading has been distasteful enough.

Anything that included Voldemort was an unpleasant dream.

Harry would have been content to forget about all of it, but he was not just any old wizard. If the snapping cameras and starry eyed girls were anything to go by, he was not just Harry, but the Harry Potter. And like Trelawney said, he had a job to do. So, he stored the information away for later reference.

It was five in the morning and he had opened his window with utmost caution to not ignite a disturbance in the house. It only took a soft call for Hedwig to flutter into his room.

Shushing her, Harry fed her a piece of toast that his Aunt ha brutally shoved under his door for dinner last night. It was mostly burnt, so he had decided to skip a meal at his own will. And by the look on Hedwig's face, it seemed that no being, human or animal, wanted the black toast. With a snort of enjoyment, he noted that his Aunt's cooking would never spark desire for consumption to anyone who had ever tasted anything besides mutton.

"Just a sec, Hedwig." He whispered, quickly shaking his head as the snowy owl began to hoot curiously at him. "Shhhh! Hush, girl! Can't have Vernon hear you, now can we?" he stroked her feathers gently feeling somewhat at peace with her in the room. She was, after all, one of his oldest friends.

Her yellow eyes widened, but she shut her beak and suddenly looked rather indignant.

Harry tried not to laugh as he knelt by the loose floorboard and pulled out a piece of parchment he had nicked before his imprisonment for stealing the key to the cupboard lock. He shuffled around for a minute or two before he located a ballpoint pen near his bedside.

He heard Hedwig shuffle, her clawed feet tattering on his desk.

He looked up to glare at her. "Hedwig!" he hissed admonishingly.

She stretched her wings, seeming to shrug at him. It only took a moment for Harry to cave. "It's okay, girl. I'll be quick, then you can go."

Luck you, he thought.

He knew Hedwig hated being in this room, especially after previous summers when she had been locked up with him in her cage without any wing-space and the occasional Dudley coming in to shake her cage. He just had to give her a letter.

Bringing the pen to the paper, he started to write to his Headmaster. He scribbled a few pleasantries, although, whenever he wrote back to Dumbledore, he felt himself inwardly steaming. He was not mad at the grandfatherly man whom he considered like family to him, per se. He was angry at the situation, he reasoned. Dumbledore was not sharing any information with him and he was most likely not doing so because the letters could be intercepted by anyone, from a Dark sympathizer to a nosey journalist.

That and he thought Harry was too young to know any details.

As much as Harry wanted to write that the old man should just spill since he had been forced to mature years ago, he did not. Instead, he gave the man what he wanted to hear. Harry was fine and glad that nothing terrible was trashing Hogwarts at the moment.

He briefly debated telling Dumbledore about his dreams, but with a small childish sentiment hugging his brain, he decided two could play this game. He could withhold some information as well.

By the time he tied the letter around Hedwig's leg and sent her on her way, he felt a gnawing guilt in his stomach. He probably should have told the man. Why did he not say anything? So, when he went back to school he could stick out his tongue and sing 'I know something you don't know?' Well, that served absolutely no purpose. They were not enemies.

Harry guessed his frustration was getting the better of him and instead of dwelling on it, he watched the sun.

As his eyes followed the brilliant colors painted in the sky, he contemplated jumping out the window. Not suicide, of course. But, he wondered if he could survive the two story fall without any injuries. It would be nice to spend the day outside of this damn room.

He snorted. "Yea, but if I make it, then how am I supposed to bloody get back in here? Waltz through the front door? Vernon would love that."

He whipped around and faced the exit.

Wrinkling his nose, he padded over to the door and fell to his knees to peer out the catflap. Classic. No one was up and about, and he really had to take a piss.

Taking a chance, he reached to the knob and turned it. He could feel that the knob was unlocked, but the various other latches were keeping him tucked away like a dog.

"Merlin. What does a man have to do to use the loo?" Sighing in dismay, he sank into the cot again.

It would be another half an hour at least until Petunia woke.

When she did, he hoped she would come to him first. It was unlikely, but Harry knew that today was the last day of his lockdown punishment. Like he said before, no one could harbor any craving for Petunia's food. Her meals did not hold a candle to Harry's.

Turning over, he buried his face into his pillow, feeling the bottle-cap lenses dig into the bridge of his nose. Harry did not enjoy most of the chores he was forced to do, but over the years he had developed a secret fondness for cooking. It was the only chore on his list that allowed him to get creative and since he had started from entirely too young of an age, his practice had made him a decent chef. Harry knew for a fact that when he was gone during the year, the Dursleys spent most of their nights eating out or ordering. It would not be long until Vernon felt as if he was wasting too much money on take out when his slave of a nephew was just a few stairs away from the kitchen.

He flipped over again and rubbed his cheeks in boredom. What was he supposed to do for another twenty five minutes? He had finished his Charms book and he had even planned a general outline for his Potions essay.

Harry let his mind wander to his latest vision. Lucius Malfoy's image was strongly stamped underneath his eyelids.

Harry's opinion of Malfoy Senior was just about the same as his opinion of Malfoy Junior. Dislike. Lucius Malfoy was a sneaky and conniving politician and after any experience Harry had with Fudge's stupidity, such as his decision to elect Umbridge as a professor, Harry concluded that he very much detested politicians.

Malfoy Senior had tried to revive Voldemort, had indirectly attempted to murder his best friend's little sister, and had nearly used an unforgivable on him all in one year. Not to mention the fact that he had been at the little escapade at the Department of Mysteries last year.

Harry felt his opinion of this Malfoy was justified.

Murderer, prejudice, house-elf abuser, snotty, and evil. What was to like about him anyway?

Harry could not help but feel some reluctant admiration for the git. How had Malfoy done it? He had the government's complete trust and was even well-known and respected public figure. How had he remained (for the most part) a creditable member of society while working for the darkest wizard of the century? Whether or not Malfoy was suspected for being a Death Eater, no one ever dared to cross him. He remained untouchable and even those who knew of his evils from firsthand experience could not enough proof to even develop a court claim.

Malfoy was two faced without consequence.

The fact disgusted Harry, but at the same time awestruck him.

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Severus was not very pleased.

No, a pleasant feeling was not something that warmed him when he was pulled from his work by a persistent house elf.

Not too long ago, he had been absorbed in stocking up the infirmary's Invigorating Draughts. The potion was not complex, but it was lengthy and its formula was precise. One poorly executed stir or a late addition of an ingredient would ruin the delicate mixture and turn it so toxic that it could not be recovered. Severus had been on the verge of completing his twelfth brew of sixteen when the adamant creature had popped into his private lab and demanded his attention.

At first, Severus believed he could stare the creature down and make it disappear in a fit of anxiety as he had the last, when he realized that the elf had forced him to hesitate in finishing the second clockwise stir. The potion bubbled an angry violet and with a stiff roll of his eyes, he drew his wand and murmured a quick _Episkey. _

He would have to restart anyhow.

The elf had the decency to look sheepish, yet as Severus replaced his wand, it urged him to go immediately to Dumbledore.

He hoped to Merlin this was not another tea session. He had neither the time nor patience to sit and sip on black tea and pick at too sweet lemon biscuits just to save the old man from drowning deeper into senility.

He climbed the staircase to the Headmaster's office and with a gentle knock warning his arrival, slipped inside.

He was surprised to see Mad-Eye Moody sitting in front of Dumbledore's desk with his can in one hand and a lemon drop in the other. It was obviously not a scheduled Order meeting, so Severus surmised that the two desired his input or confirmation on something regarding the Dark Lord.

Keeping his face blank and his Occlumency shields well-guarded, he greeted the two.

"Albus. Alastor." He nodded.

It was not Albus he mistrusted, it was Moody. Though he knew the man was loyal to the Order, he still did not want the man attempting to poke into his business. If given the opportunity, Severus knew, Alastor would rummage through all of his thoughts relentlessly. The man did not trust Severus. With good reason, however. No one, but Albus trusted Severus.

Moody eyed Severus with suspicion and grumbled a salutation.

"Ah! Severus, my boy, please take a seat!" Albus gestured extravagantly at the lime green plush seat by Moody's side. Stroking his grey beard, Albus smiled kindly at him. "Shall I call Winky for more tea? I do know you enjoy the Earl Grey. "

Severus tightened his lips. "I'm afraid I don't have time to remain for an extended visit, Albus, I'm in the middle of fulfilling a task of great importance."

Moody jerked around, facing Severus with his fake eye rolling wildly in its socket. "What kind of task? Eh?" he spat. "A task assigned to yeh by a certain Dark Lord?"

Severus crossed his arms defensively and looked blankly at the man, cocking one eyebrow as if to mock the idiocy of his remark. He would have replied, but Albus beat him to it.

"Now, now, Alastor. Really, by now you know that Severus is good company. His allegiances are the same as ours and I don't want out tea to be spoiled with the flavor of mistrust rising in the air. Please, Severus. Sit. I promise this old man will not take up too much of your time at the moment, I only have some things I wish to discuss with you and Alastor." He said, fixing the cup of tea that Winky dropped on his desk for him.

Severus wanted to decline the offer, but was too mature. With a heavy reluctance and dissatisfaction etched on his face, he fell gracefully into the offered seat, perched on the end with his back straight and dark eyes looking expectantly at Albus.

"Now, as both of you are aware, young Mister Potter often spends the end of the summer with the Weasleys, but I have spoken to Molly a few days ago and her, Arthur, and I all agree that, perhaps, this year alternative plans may need to be followed." His dialogue was interrupted as he reached for a duck shaped tea biscuit and bit off the frosted head.

Severus narrowed his eyes. He had a feeling he would not like where this was going.

"With consideration to the recent Death Eater attacks, most specifically the one made on Seamus Finnegan's house two days ago, I believe that this summer, it would benefit Harry to stay at Hogwarts for the remainder of his vacation."

He paused here, drinking from his tea and reaching for another biscuit. Taking his time, he devoured it happily.

Severus resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and instead, he calmed his rising temper with a deep breath. "And? This pertains to us how, Albus?"

Moody grunted as if he approved Severus' inquiry and it took all of his willpower to not send a stinging hex at the man. Whatever patience Severus used to have, it was dwindling. Some things just got real old, real quick.

"Well, I was hoping I could send the two of you to retrieve young Harry from his relatives' house in Little Winging."

Moody nodded in affirmation, however Severus was once again, not so pleased.

"What?" Severus inquired, puzzled for a moment before an exasperated look came over him. "Albus. I don't have time for this. I promised Poppy I would restock the Hospital Wing with all the potions necessary for the upcoming year by the end of this week. I cannot be bothered with taking an unnecessary trip away from the castle to act as an escort for the Potter."

He stood up abruptly, leaving his smoking tea untouched.

"Severus, my boy. Do sit a moment." Dumbledore said dismissively as if the man had not just been about to stomp out. Politely, Albus waited for Potions Master to be seated before continuing. "As I was saying, normally I would send Remus, but at the moment, he is battling his own emotions and I don't think that Harry should be subjected to any more sensitivity than necessary. I'm positive that he is taking careful steps towards recovering from mourning as we speak and I would want nothing to interfere with his healing process. Remus simply cannot hold himself together at present and for Harry to see him like that would no doubt crush him."

Severus snorted. "So, allow me to clarify your order. You would like us to go retrieve the brat with hugs and smiles as not to taint his delicate soul any further and escort him like a precious gem back to Hogwarts. Correct?"

Albus' azure eyes crinkled as he chuckled, amused at Severus' antics. "Not quite, Severus."

"Oh?" he replied, his eyes wide in jest. "What is it that I'm missing?"

"I would like for you and Alastor to take him to visit his friends at the Burrow. I've already arranged for you three to be accommodated into dinner in exactly three nights from today. I believe some socializing would do Harry some good to reassure him that his friends are in good health. He's been particularly worried about them the entire summer. Then, the three of you will return to Hogwarts and Dobby will meet you to see that Harry gets settled in."

"No." Severus deadpanned.

Moody turned to him with a nasty expression of distaste on his scarred face. "What, Snape? Too afraid that you won't make it through me to fulfill your Master's orders?" he gruffed, a bizarre combination suspicion and simultaneous amusement in his eyes.

Severus smirked and sat back in his seat, lounging. "Moody, I have no avidity gripping my heart to kidnap Mister Potter and deliver him to the Dark Lord as that would be most definitely counterproductive to the Light's cause. Therefore, you need not preoccupy yourself with self-destructive fears that I will ambush you at any given time, no matter how easy or tempting the opportunity may be."

Moody growled, banging his cane on the ground for emphasis as he leaned over the armrest of his seat. "I'm not afraid of you, Snape. I eat Death Eaters for breakfast." He barked a laugh, "You spineless lot, all bark, no bite. You wouldn't dare try to cross me, especially not with the world there to witness your betrayal."

Severus mimicked his opponent's stance by uncrossing his legs and resting his arm on his own chair. "Only fools make assumptions. Perhaps it would do you well to watch your back on the path to Surrey. I've heard Death Eaters are unafraid of using curses in a Muggle's presence."

Moody looked as if he was about to hiss, but a joyful clapping distracted him and suddenly all eyes were on the Headmaster. Moody leaned back in his chair, relaxing.

Severus looked between Moody and Dumbledore. Why did the both of them look so smug?

"Splendid!" he cried, his eyes twinkling at the pair. "So, you will go!"

The Slytherin's eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He huffed.

Severus would have thrown a nasty comment at the man had he not been so busy chastising himself for falling straight into their trap.

It seemed as if he would have to work overtime to achieve the same quantity of potions he had promised Poppy in order to get them to her on time.

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Harry had just finished taking out the trash when it had happened.

Honestly, as much as he was branded as a rule-breaker, Harry knew when and where he could test the limits. And the Dursleys was not the place to do so. Harry was strictly rule-abiding in his relatives' home, as not to intrude upon their daily life. He knew that the aspiration everyone hoped to attain was a world in which he did not exist. So he kept silent, he did as he was told, and lived on the sideline.

If he would have seen Hedwig coming, he would have waved her aside to protect her from the neighbors' view. But, she had flown straight into the window…and Aunt Petunia had exploded.

"Boy!" She shrieked jumping away from the window before racing off to the front door to make sure no one in the development had seen. Seeing no one, she slammed it shut and stamped back into the hall. "How many times have we told you? You keep your freakishness _out_ of the house!" Her face had turned an ugly paste complexion and her lips were pulled back to bear her teeth like she was a wolf trying to protect her territory.

Harry gasped, turning away from where he saw Hedwig still hovering on the outside of the house. "I'm so sorry, Aunt Petunia. I'll just go get her."

Harry was about to flee out the door and collect his pet when Vernon came barreling down the stairs, his footsteps sounding like thunder booming, their vibrations shaking the staircase as the obese man waddled faster than Harry had ever known he could move.

Vernon took one glance at Hedwig and roared, shoving his wife aside and the next thing he knew, Harry had the wind knocked out of him as he was roughly shoved against the wall. It took him a moment to orient himself, but as soon as he did, he regretted it. His moment of immobility gave Vernon all the time he required to thread one meaty hand in Harry's ebony mop. The fingers gripped the hair painfully tugging on his scalp as Vernon slammed the teenager's head into the paint.

Harry heard a choked gasp come from himself and felt the impact of his head against the wall push from the back his neck to his forehead. He saw stars. He could barely focus on Vernon's accusing eyes.

"You _freak_!" he bellowed, spittle spurting from his lipless mouth onto his moustache and into Harry's face. "We _told_ you! We said no! Was it too much to ask for that you obey our rules as we house you under our roof and give you our food and living space? You ungrateful little, bloody beast."

Vernon shook him harshly before pointing a finger at his nose. "You've been planning all of this heebie-geebie the entire time! You think you can get away with endangering my family after all we've done for you, out of the goodness of our hearts? I don't know what sort of deranged revenge you are trying to achieve, but not in my house. I won't tolerate this..this…blasphemy! Sacrilege! Ingratitude and indiscipline!"

"It was just an owl! It's only post! I'm not trying t—"

A blow straight to the face. Vernon's hand protruded from the dust of the universe, fingers fisted in a powerful clench. Harry felt the knuckles pound into his face one by one as the fist smacked his left cheek. He felt something in his jaw crack and he felt the metallic taste of blood as his teeth cut into his own tongue, breaking the tender muscle and filling his mouth with the flavor of copper.

He did not feel the pain.

Instead, he looked up at his Uncle as his body fell back to the wall from the force of it all. His hand tried to grip the wall as he search instinctively for some stability. His fingers grazed against the cupboard door.

His relatives had never liked him. Harry had known this. But, as his green eyes locked with Vernon's fierce brown, he felt himself cringe. Vernon did not just hate Harry, Vernon abhorred him.

The Gryffindor stood frozen, as if in a hypnotic trance.

Vernon loomed over him. "There will be none of the 'M' word taking place in this house. Ever."

For the first time since Harry had begun to attend Hogwarts, the teenager felt an irresistible urge to curl up away from his relatives' disgusted gazes and hide in his cupboard.

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_A/N: Uhh. Hi. I just wanted to give a huge shoutout to Tommy14, hawi, Tsume Daitaro, Just A Keepsake, Moi, and HarryPotterFan05! Thank you so, so, so much for reviewing. Everytime I read a review, I get inspired to start writing sooner than I originally would have! _

_I have been trying to keep the characters pretty...well in character, for as long as I can. How am I doing? I'm also trying to build the plot. XD Are you liking it so far?_

_Please...**REVIEW!**_


	4. Chapter Four

_Summary, warnings, pairings, dislaimer...all located in first chapter and continue to apply to the entire story. _

_A/N: Hey ya'll! How's it going? XD_

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॥ ୡ **_B_**_rande**d** _ୡ ॥

Chapter Four

The next two days Harry was allowed to roam free. It had been on the teen's agenda to avoid his Uncle's presence, yet, ever since the man had slugged him one, he was mysteriously absent from the house during the day: he left for work early at the crack of dawn and did not return until dinnertime, after which he went straight to bed without sparing Harry more than a few dirty looks.

In fact, Harry's Aunt had also taken an extra stride to stay out of his way. She would leave his list of chores on the counter and stood clear out of his path for the rest of the day. The only one who seemed pay Harry any attention was his cousin and even so, Dudley spent most of the summer at Piers Polkiss' house.

Harry could not be certain of their motivation to dodge him, though he had come to the conclusion that his relatives either thought he was going to execute them with a vindictive curse or that Hedwig's letter, which revealed that his pick-up was scheduled for tomorrow late afternoon, was an omen from Harry's minions in the Wizarding World.

Surprisingly, or not so surprisingly considering he had pretty much scrubbed, dazzled, and repainted everything in Number Four, Harry's list of chores was simple for today. Other than cooking, the only laboursome task was setting the sprinkler system for the backyard. When Harry had finished with that, he shrugged and sat on the floor of the porch. For a few long moments, he threw his head back and relished in the warmth of the sun beating down and listened to the sprinklers go off, occasionally feeling a drip or two of cool water spritz on his cheek.

His mind must have been infected. No matter where his thoughts flew, they were always dragged back to the topic of war. The impending war.

Feeling the sun bathe him, he wondered what Voldemort was thinking.

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When Severus apparated to Little Winging, Surrey, he landed firmly on his feet and without a backward glance, took off purposefully down Privet Drive. He could not care less that Moody, who arrived a second later than he, was struggling to keep up with his long strides. He could hear the paranoid ex-Auror huffing and his wooden leg tromping against the blacktop of the street.

He quickened his speed. A man with a mission, quite.

Severus could barely restrain the sour tightening of his lips as he counted the numbers down. He hummed in agitation. Only muggles would erect dozens of identical houses and expect a visitor to walk without a map until they found their destination. How muggles got along without Point-Me charms, he would never know.

He could practically feel the irritation sweating off his undesired companion. Lucky for them both, Severus had experience with navigating muggle neighborhoods.

As he approached Number Four he felt rancid.

He had no desire to retrieve Mister Potter and he had less of a desire to witness the brat's worshipping caretakers. He had to spend all year tolerating the James Potter miniature, and now he had to relinquish a slice of his summer time to tend to his needs as well? Absurd!

"Turn!" he barked at Moody, momentarily wondering why he had not received a snarky remark from man in the past three minutes.

As they both made their way up to the front door, Severus gave the house a once-over and was forced to not roll his eyes at its clean-cut exterior. Only the best for The-Boy-Who-Lived.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Moody had collected himself, he raised one dexterous finger and rang the doorbell. A horse faced woman answered.

Standing to his full height, he drawled, "Hello, Petunia."

The woman, dressed in a floral frock and a strangely spotless apron jumped and her hand flew to her mouth as if to stop the small yelp of startled misbelief that escaped her lips. Her eyes, swiping over him suddenly narrowed and the hand transformed into clenching mess as she pointed a finger rudely at his face.

"You!" she stated rather loudly before her head jerked around him.

"We have been sent by Professor Albus Dumbledore to escort your nephew back to school." He said looking quite impatient; his tone having no room for negotiation or second guesses. The sooner he could get the kid, the sooner he could leave. He did not want to dally.

Abruptly, Petunia whipped the door open and looked as if she was about to willingly burn her own hands in a kerosene lamp. "Get in!" she yelled in a whisper, her hands tight on the door's brass knob as she continued peering past his shoulder. "Heaven forbid the neighbors see! The last thing we need is any more of _this_."

Severus ignored her and waltzed in lazily, deciding to smirk as he heard the woman emit an odd strangled sound between a hiccup and a cry, no doubt brought forth at the image of Moody's electric blue eye rolling around in its socket. He felt the door close behind them and with a trained impulse, evaluated his surroundings.

He stood in the foyer and quickly assessed an outline of the home before allowing his eyes to sharpen and absorb it in detail. To the right, the carpeted stairs led to the upper level of the house, to the left was the entrance to the formal living room, and directly in front of him, he could see the a pot on the kitchen stove, a refrigerator, and a glass door that he presumed lead to a backyard entertainment zone.

He lightly furrowed his eyebrows as his onyx eyes swept over the place. It was pristine, clean to the point that it radiated with an obsessive compulsive quality. Did Petunia spend the day fixing every nook and cranny into perfection? He guessed that she was, as she had always aspired to be, a stay at home mother and an ideal housewife. His gaze flickered over the clean fire mantle, taking notice that it was home to a collection of unmoving photos of what he presumed was the entire Dursley family. Curiously, there was none of Potter.

He hummed once more in consideration.

Actually, as he eyed an overwhelming accumulation of photos of an obese, flaxen haired child, he felt as if something was out of place. The house seemed to be devoid of any evidence that the Gryffindor Prince was a resident.

The man moved to turn around when a tiny door captured his eye; he faced a small cupboard underneath the stairs. It was barely mid-thigh high for him and had a sole lock clipping it shut. Storage, possibly.

Severus turned swiftly and focused his attention on Moody and Petunia who were engaged in some sort of a staring contest. The woman inched away from the man and turned like a hawk to Severus.

"You." She repeated, her nosed wrinkled as if she smelt rotten meat. "You're that horrid boy Lily used to play with. Idiot girl! You were nothing but bad news for all of us."

Severus visibly flinched at the mention of her sister's name. "I see time has not affected your character, Petunia. Still the same jealous, average, and spiteful little girl you always were." He retorted darkly. To this day, he could not fathom how Lily and Petunia shared the same genes. Lily had always been a positive woman, while Petunia had always been negative.

She looked as if she wanted to say more, but instead she wisely shut her mouth. Her eyes regarded him coldly, with an easy glare of dislike. For another minute there was silence and all he could hear was Moody's breath breathing at a jumpy pace like that of a werewolf ready to pounce on its prey. But then, the door opened on its own accord and in waddled a short, portly man wrapped in sweat-stained business attire.

His eyes lit up as he step inside, but as soon as he took in his visitors, he spluttered and turned to his wife for an answer.

"They're here for the boy." Petunia shrugged and with a warning glare, padded over to shut the window blinds.

Severus watched with a frown, intrigued as the man suddenly began to turn purple with outrage.

"Freaks!" he spasmed, dropping his briefcase by the door. "Ohhh, no. I'll not have any more of you in my house! You're here for the boy! Get him and go. Leave at once! This is private property."

As Vernon quaked, Petunia returned and nudged him lightly. "Vernon," she spoke softly, gesturing with her eyes for the man to go upstairs.

Vernon sighed through his nose moodily, but his eyes suddenly reflected an inch of fear. But, of what?

"Right." He nodded and began up the stairs, shoving a pudgy hand into his pocket, rattling around until he revealed a set of keys.

Moody watched him closely, with skepticism and intelligent eyes. Something was not settling well in Severus' stomach when Petunia, looking like she swallowed a lemon, invited them to sit down by the television set. As the trio sat stiffly together, their muscles as tense as cement from distrust, Severus thought that this was taking too long. Why was everything regarding Potter such a grand process? He glanced at Moody and saw the mad-eye looking up the stairs and Severus knew instinctively that he was trying to look through the wall to spy on Petunia's husband.

Severus' keen hearing picked up the distinct sound of turning locks and a door being pulled open. Shuffling, creaking, the sound of something being set in place and finally he saw Potter's Uncle dragging the child by the bicep down the stairs. When the two made it down, neither acknowledged their visitors and instead, Vernon half-shoved the boy toward the cupboard. The back of Potter's head stayed within his view.

The Potions Master transcribed that Potter's hair had grown longer since he last saw him. It was not flowing to his waist, yet its length had significantly differed from the cropped, spiky cut he usually sported. As Potter produced a key from the back pocket of his pants and began to unlock the cupboard, a spike of movement caught Severus' eye. When Potter revealed the key, his Uncle seemed to step forward, his fist tightening and his tiny eyes flaring.

Breaking the tension, Moody stood up and took his wand from his robes, effectively causing the two muggles to retract in shock. He charged over to Harry and shrunk the boy's owl cage, before looking knowingly at the empty air near the boy's left hand and at the trunk he pulled out from the cupboard.

Severus had the opportunity to see Potter's profile as he looked at Moody with an amused, yet surprised smile. The boy gave a quiet laugh before gripping the air and opening his trunk, placing an invisible something into it and locking it up safe. With another shrinking charm, Moody nodded sharply and started toward the exit.

"Thank you, sir!" Harry called, with a pinch, he gathered the palm-sized belongings and pocketed them.

Moody, with his scars protruding, gave Potter a sort of smile in return. "Time to go! Let's get a move on, Snape. We're running late."

It was then that Potter turned fully around.

He met Potter's eyes. Behind the bulky lenses were the wide-set emerald eyes of his childhood friend, taking in his presence, which a few seconds ago had not been registered. Whenever Potter looked him straight in the face, Severus felt his left forearm itch and, though the man would never admit it, he felt almost unworthy of sharing the child's space. The eye contact now would have evoked the same reaction had Severus not been distracted by the hefty bruise decorating Potter's face.

It was fresh, obviously. A black and blue hematoma that took up a good portion of his right cheek: the harsh color contrasted vividly with the pale complexion that was its canvas.

Severus felt a queasy spell wash over him.

For the first time in a while, Severus was unsure of how to proceed and what to deduce from the information presented to him.

"Time to say your heartfelt good-byes, Potter. We are being expected at the Burrow."

Potter turned to his relatives; his eyes focused on the floor, and offered them a tight nod before moving to follow Moody out the door.

On his way out, Severus spotted disproportionate stick figure images crayoned red into the cupboard's inner wall and he, for the life of him, could not shake off his pensive mood for the rest of the night.

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Harry knew he looked like a fool, but when Moody apparated him to the Burrow, he adopted a bounce in his steps. In the far distance, he could see the narrow house of his surrogate family, leaning with smoke filing up from the chimney. He could practically smell Mrs. Weasley's hearty home cooking.

To save himself from salivating excessively, he turned curiously to Moody. Ron had told him at one point that Alastor Moody was the greatest Auror of this century. He was powerful and craftily dangerous—thanks to him, Azkaban was stocked with red handed Death Eaters who had tortured and maimed innocents for pleasure. The man's scars and missing appendages were enough to serve as proof of his ferocity as a survivor, but what held Harry's interest was the 'mad-eye' he was infamous for.

"Professor Moody," he started, but with a mental facepalm corrected himself. "uh, Mister Moody." The man had never been his professor: it had been Barty Crouch Junior all along. Oddly enough, despite having been in that Death Eater's presence for an entire year, the real Moody made him more nervous than the fake.

The man tilted his head in recognition. "Yes, Potter?"

"How did you know I was holding my invisibility cloak before?" he asked. Before Vernon had rushed him downstairs, Harry had emptied his floorboard and pulled out the sack he created out of his father's cloak, bringing it downstairs to put safely in his trunk.

Moody chuckled and tapped his faux eye, which for a moment stared creepily at Harry's face in unusual unison with his real eye.

"Wicked!" Harry could not help but feel impressed with the magical object. "Your eye can see through invisibility? Can you see through, like…wards and stuff?"

Vaguely, he heard Snape cough somewhere behind him. "Don't be daft, Potter. Wards are not invisible; they are simply energy-based."

Moody seemed to ignore the bat. "The eye allows me to see through invisibility cloaks and objects, and of course, through the back of my head."

"Oh, so sort of like x-ray vision?" Harry heard Snape snort and Moody just looked at him puzzled. Harry shook his head, flushing lightly, requesting that the man let the comment slide and continue.

"It's good for enemies. You never know who'll come up behind you, Potter, especially in bloody times like these. No one's ever slipped past me; the eye keeps them at bay. Constant vigilance!"

Harry felt more curiosity nipping at him. "Is that common in the Wizarding World, I mean, objects that can penetrate a disguise?"

Moody gave an affirmative nod. "Common? Of course. Virtually anyone can attain at least one magical object that can help them locate hidden or out of sight-range beings for a pretty penny." The man pulled out a glass shard from his robes and handed it to him. "A Foe-Glass," he offered. "shows the images of enemies as they approach you. Three hundred galleons, twelve sickles, and two knuts."

Harry fingered the mirror-like smooth exterior.

"Go on." Moody urged. "Take a look inside."

Gripping it in his hand, Harry held the Foe-Glass to his eye. He half expected to see Snape's unamused face flaring back at him, but in place of that saw straight through the glass. It was transparent.

"Nothing." He looked back to Moody, handing the item to him with care, as not to drop it.

The ex-Auror's grey grizzled hair flew to his left cheek in the wind. "Ha! Lucky you!" He stowed it away once more. "With one glance into that little thing, I can pinpoint a nearby Death Eater faster than you can say the Killing Curse."

Harry frowned as they neared the Burrow entrance. "So, with all of these objects available to the public, how is it that people can be unprepared for Voldemort's attacks?"

Moody looked at him thoughtfully, stopping to lean on his staff. "Just as technology advances, so does magic, Potter. You think the Dark Lord uses invisibility cloaks to hide his minions before a raid? No. Because we have things to detect that, the enemy goes one step ahead of the game. So, he can't use a notice-me-not charm or hide behind walls since we can see through those too. Do you remember what Crouch Jr. used to slip under our noses, boy? Polyjuice Potion! Almost completely undetectable if the impersonator can pull off his role and keep the potion in his system. And what if they're not willing to risk getting close? The Imperius Curse. Hex another to do their bidding. And when society invents something to detect Polyjuice and Imperius influence, they'll move on to other disguises and tricks."

Harry shuddered. "What could possibly up using the Imperius Curse?"

Finally catching up to them, Snape halted by his side, seemingly inviting himself into the conversation. "Not all facades are created with Potions or Unforgivables, Potter. In the future, you'll discover, hopefully not too late, that Charms, too, are a favourite of many Dark supporters."

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Upon entering the Burrow, the only warning Harry had was a flash of brown curls before he was tackled with an armful of Hermione Granger.

Laughing around his friend's tight grip, he patted her on the back. "Hey there!"

"Oh, Harry!" She said, finally drawing back, her eyes warm and relieved. "Thank goodness you're okay! You all are late, we thought something might've happened. Molly was tempted to fire-call Dumbledore when we heard you knocking and—" she paused, eyeing his face with sudden concern. "Where did you get that bruise?"

Harry felt himself freeze. He had forgotten there was any proof existing on his face of the past week. He had opened his mouth once, twice, before his redheaded mate cut in him.

"Oi! 'Mione, give the man room to breathe, yeah?" he heard Ron cry from behind her.

Feeling himself relax, his stomach unclenching, Harry gave a half-smile, thankful that Ron had interfered. "I'm fine, Hermione, really. All in one piece." He patted himself jokingly, "see?"

With her hands planted on her hips, Hermione gave a laugh, despite still looking unsatisfied, before grabbing his arm. "Come on, Molly would want us in the kitchen by now."

The bookworm leading the way, Harry took a quick moment to greet Ron with a one armed hug. The freckled redhead smiled goofily at him. "Glad you didn't arrive in pieces, mate. Hope you're in the mood for some good grub, 'cause you're lateness is practically starving the rest of us! Mum wouldn't let anyone tuck in before you got here."

"Honestly, Ron. You just ate two hours ago." Hermione huffed. "You can't be starved one bit, at least not with the way you devoured those caramel crumpets."

The youngest male Weasley squawked in protest and Harry felt content to be reunited with his friends. He had missed their constant bickering.

When they came into the kitchen, Molly smushed him into her bosom, telling him how happy she was that Dumbledore gave him permission to come over. She shooed him to a spot at the enlarged table, where from he was greeted by the twins who were already eyeing Snape mischievously, a slightly blushing Ginny, an all too eager Arthur, an indifferent Percy, and a smiling Bill. As his eyes filed down the table, he was surprised to see another fellow Gryffindor that was not part of the Weasley clan.

"Seamus?" he said in surprise. But, the Irish lad briefly met his eyes before ignoring him completely, lacking his usual infectious energy.

Ron pulled on his sleeve. "Don't mind him, mate. He's been a bit moody lately, don't take it too personal. He's been stayin' with us for a few days now. Nobody'll tell us for sure, but 'Mione's pretty certain that something happened to his house thanks to You-Know-Who."

Harry frowned. "You don't know for sure?"

"Nah," Ron whispered. "But, Fred and George overheard the adults talking, you know. They won't let us into the Order meetings, but they think Seamus' mum was roughed up pretty bad. Guess it was an attack."

Harry sighed. "Why won't they let us in again? It seems like a waste of time for us to just wallow around and know nothing."

Leaning in on his other shoulder, Hermione caught onto the conversation. "Ron's mum says we're not old enough." She looked as if she wanted to challenge the fact.

"Old enough to get past Fluffy, escape Devil's Snare, play a game of life-threatening chess, chase a basilisk into the Chamber of Secrets, use a time-turner to free an Azkaban escapee, and compete in the Tri-Wizard tournament, hold our own against a Death Eater infiltration of the Ministry…but, not old enough to sit in a meeting full of old folk?" Harry retorted.

Hermione gave him a look that stated she was on his side, before reaching for the mashed potatoes.

"Wait," Ron swallowed a bite of chicken and shoved a spoonful of peas into his mouth. "Y'u guysh useda time-turnah?'

Two thirds of the trio shared an exclusive laugh.

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Dinner had gone by far too quickly in Harry's opinion. Mrs. Weasley had surprised him with a cake, iced with obnoxious scarlet and yellow and an animated lion prancing between the candles, for his birthday which he had in all truthfulness, forgot was today. His heart wrenched when it was time to leave, but he reassured himself that it would not be more than a few weeks until the beginning of the term.

Moody, Snape, and he took a paperclip portkey back to Hogwarts and they were met with a grinning Albus Dumbledore who invited them in for tea despite having just feasted. Snape had, of course, declined the offer with a witty remark and took off to find his peace in the damp dungeons. So, Harry sat with Moody for a while, sipping on chamomile with honey, and answering a few small-talk questions. Not too long after, Dumbledore informed him that he could move in to Gryffindor Tower early this year and when he arrived at the portrait, a house elf would meet him.

True to his word, Dobby was waiting anxiously for him by the Fat Lady, eagerly telling him the password and following him inside to unshrink his luggage and make sure he was comfortable.

Although Harry, wrapped up in his toasty four-poster bed, felt that he had finally come home, he did not fall into the beautiful oblivion of sleep straight away.

His mind kept buzzing with thoughts centering on what his friends had told him earlier. He thought it was ridiculous that they were forbidden to enter the Order's meetings. If anything, Harry felt that after defeating Voldemort multiple times in his short life, he was more qualified than some to be a part of their sessions.

He could not shake off the feeling that he was being forced to be worthlessly ignorant.

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Only four days had passed in his stay when Dumbledore had casually informed him that he would be undergoing remedial classes for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

At first, Harry had been gob-smacked and was about to protest, DADA, after all, was the only subject he earned an O in, when the old man had twinkled at him and proceeded to explain that Professor Snape was knowledgeable of a plethora of information that both Harry and the members of Dumbledore's Army would find appropriately valuable. So, begrudgingly Harry consented and it was for that reason why he was now on his way down to the dungeons.

As his footfalls echoed in the empty castle, Harry was torn between being excited about having something to do and being depressed that it involved Snape. Harry did not care for the man, although with light to the events that took place last year, he had come to feel something more complicated than simple irritation for him. Whatever the sentiment was, he could not quite translate it.

He wanted to continue disliking the greasy man who constantly made amiss assumptions of his personal life and personality, but after spending some accidental quality time with the man's pensive, Harry felt a sort of sympathy for him.

No.

Sympathy was not the correct word.

Harry felt bad for the gangly boy he had seen being unrelentingly bullied by James Potter and Sirius Black. Perhaps, he pitied him. He felt disappointed in the reality that his father, a man that he realized he had never known though had put on a pedestal, did not reflect the saintly image he had conjured as the years went on. If one thing, Harry did not stand for bullying. Teasing someone and causing them physical or mental pain was the lowest grade of attack that existed; this pensee was one that fueled Harry's aversion toward people like Draco Malfoy or Dudley Dursley. Harry had more than once been the victim of a bully.

So, maybe pity was not the correct word either. More like empathy.

Harry felt where Snape was coming from; he could relate. Now, he understood why the Head of Slytherin harvested such hostility toward his father. But, taking that hostility out on a man's son? It was batty. Harry was not his father nor would he ever be: they were two different, separate entities, not even considering the fact that James' death prevented him from influencing Harry's growth. Harry had never been particularly kind or unkind to Snape, unless provoked by the man's cutting insults. Harry reasoned that he should not have had to pay for his father's behaviour and Snape, being as old as he was, should just let the whole damn thing go. Harry did not like the Dursleys, and despite having been subjected to their maltreatment, he tolerated them.

When Harry entered the Potions classroom he felt the same deja-vu he did every year he returned. Not exactly a classroom that brought back pleasant memories, and it being a particularly dull and dreary looking on the inside did not help.

He walked in to discover Snape stirring a potion. The man did not look up upon his arrival, though obviously had heard him coming and was aware of his presence.

"Sit." His voice was sharp as a tack.

Mumbling a 'yes, Sir,' he fell into a seat several tables away from where the Professor was working. As he sat, Harry sincerely hoped that he had gotten the memo that this was not remedial Potions. The last thing Harry wanted to do was delve into the tedious task of potion-making.

Having nothing else to do, Harry let his eyes wander over to his Professor. He never really got the opportunity to actually look at the man without distraction as he was usually too busy glaring at his Potions cauldron trying not to let his temper get the best of him and loose more House points in class.

With a sort of surprised realization, he noticed that Snape was lacking his usual billowing robes today. Instead, he seemed to have shed the formal cloak and was left adorned in what he wore underneath it. Black slacks, a black long sleeved shirt of expensive looking material, and a fine quality, black high necked vest with too-many buttons that Harry supposed took a fairly long amount of time to close in the morning. Harry sniggered to himself; even Snape must have gotten into the groove of summer relaxation because the buttons were suddenly undone from the top of his breastplate and up. Harry guessed even those with a stick up their arse had their versions of dressing down.

As the silence grew thicker, Harry wondered if he should have come down later. In truth, he had arrived exactly on time, not wanting to give his Professor a reason to start pre-assigning detentions, but it was obvious the man had not expected him for another ten minutes.

Rearranging his glasses, Harry leaned forward, resting his face in his palm.

Harry had never seen the man so quiet without executing the task of scrutinizing students for troublemakers.

Snape was utterly absorbed in his work and for the first time, Harry could see the mannerisms of the legendary Potions Master Snape was rumored to be. With his sleeves rolled up carefully to his elbows, his right hand had a steady grip on a copper stirring rod and beneath his ghost-white flesh, Harry could see the muscles of his forearm flexing as he stirred with synchronized rhythm.

It was obviously his gift. Snape had an, admittedly, eerie sort of elegance encrypted into his movements as he went about completing the potion. The man moved with a fluidity that most could never hope to attain while performing such an onerous task. All too quickly, Harry felt as if he were suddenly imposing on the man's privacy—like he was watching some sort of exotic species go about their life in their natural habitat, sort of like that awkward time he had watched the mating ritual of cougars on the telly.

He felt his cheeks flush, but, he continued watching as the man bottled the ruby concoction.

He observed as a chunk of ebony hair was flipped out of the man's eyes, the offending lock momentarily messing with his line of vision an—wait. Harry squinted. Something about Snape's hair looked different today…

Gone was the grease slicked halo that Harry had seen when Snape and Moody had saved him the Dursleys. Now, rather, his hair was tucked into a somewhat loose ponytail low on his head. Harry resisted the urge to conjure a magnifying glass or something. Was it just him or did Snape's hair not look so greasy? Harry chewed on the deduction that Snape must have showered recently, because from his spot, Harry, even with his dismal eyesight, could see that the black hair was damp and had a slight wave to it, rather than the usual needle straight-do he wore from day to day.

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When Severus was finished filling the vials of potion, he whispered a quick cleaning spell to vanish its remnants. Glancing up at Potter, he observed that the boy had been abnormally silent and still for the past ten minutes.

Setting the vials aside, he cast a sticking charm on them to ensure that none would topple and fall to their destruction. The vials would need to sit for at least twenty minutes for the potion to become active at room temperature.

Turning swiftly, he contemplated a spaced-out Golden Boy.

Severus guessed that the boy was sleeping with his eyes open as from all his teaching experience, he had drawn the conclusion that Gryffindors were never lost in thought.

He had expected Potter to arrive late, like he usually did to all of his detentions and to a good portion of his Potions classes, but the teen had surprised him by being on time. Perhaps with no one else lurking in the castle, Potter did not have the option to stop and chitchat with his super-fans in the corridors.

Severus' gut pulled at him uncomfortably and the one thing he had been attempting not to focus his attention on suddenly was all he could see.

That bloody bruise on Potter's face.

Blast it! It had been haunting him for days!

In the beginning, Severus had been fairly convinced that his eyes were playing tricks on him as neither Moody, Potter, nor those muggles had said anything about it. Thankfully, his sanity was reconfirmed when Granger had pointed it out. But, the Weasley child had opened his big mouth and interrupted Granger and Potter's interaction before an explanation could be given. And no one had said anything the entire dinner.

Severus had been sure that Molly would have called everyone's attention to it with an overbearingly mother-hen shriek, but instead, the woman had eyed it for a brief second before choosing to ignore it. And everyone else followed suit. If Albus noticed it, and it was truly difficult not to, he too had been a closed crypt.

Obviously, Severus was missing something. And, as a spy, he _hated_ being ill-informed.

As much as he wanted to believe Potter had simply walked into a wall, something about his visit to Petunia's had left him with a bitter aftertaste.

He was positive that the two were linked.

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Harry was still occupied with pondering Snape's hair when out of no where, an invisible force tackled him off his seat and into a heap on the floor.

Scrambling to his feet, Harry opened his mouth to scream 'what the bloody fuck,' but he never quite got to bringing the words to life because another force knocked him down again. This time, he had landed awkwardly on his arm.

"Up, Potter!"

Harry's eyes shot up to see Snape's wand in the ready position.

Not even questioning the situation, Harry jumped up and whipped his wand out as well. When he was finally still and focused on his opponent, Harry could not help the shiver that racked down his spine.

Snape had pulled himself into an offensive dueler's stance, his legs shoulder width apart, ready to dodge in a split seconds notice and his wand hand protruding at shoulder length. His obsidian eyes were trained on Harry, sharp as they professionally stalked him for movement.

It was something about the way that Snape held himself. He radiated power and in that moment, Harry saw a predator.

Snape stalked forward and Harry would have complimented his agility, but instead found himself feeling like a mouse parading in front of a cat. It was not exactly fear that gripped his heart, because he knew Snape would not harm him, at least, he would not go for permanent damage. But, he felt himself on edge. All the anxiety and energy he had been putting into thinking this entire summer had transfused into adrenaline and neroepineferine that electrically tickled his nerves and hypersensitized his body.

The eyes never left him. "Dilly-dallying will get you killed, Mister Potter. Lesson one: attentiveness. You must constantly be on guard. If the situation appears dangerous, keep your wand in close reach. If the situation appears placid, keep your wand at the ready."

Snape's voice was deep and commanding, smooth and low as if he were whispering a melody. It captivated his student and Harry could feel the sound waves bouncing off the walls, caressing his eardrums. It distracted him so much that he once again found himself on the ground.

"Up, now, Potter!" Snape roared, "What are you? A first year? It is to my greatest puzzlement that you were not entirely slaughtered in the Department of Mysteries. As demonstrated by your failure to master occlumency, you lack the simple capability to be focused! How is it you plan to fight? With all of your Golden-Boy enthusiasts sent out ahead of you?"

The comment lit Harry alfame, eating straight at his weaknesses: his pride and the reminder of Sirius' death. Though Snape had not directly said it, the man was hinting to the assumption that Harry would allow his friends to sacrifice themselves first before he even made a craven appearance on the battlefield. Well, Snape was wrong. Harry was prepared to fight and he intended to make sure his friends were guarded before Voldemort could kill anyone else he loved. So, when Snape threw another curse at him, Harry retaliated.

"_Protego_!" he cried, effectively blocking the curse.

"Not bad, Potter." Snape confessed. "A decent shielding charm is one and a half times your height. To increase the size, think of the power going into the charm. Think of the amount of energy you wish to harness and direct it through your wand's core. Again."

Snape murmured another hex and this time, Harry tried to channel his magic like an extension of his body, forcing it through his wand and, indeed, the shield had increased in size.

With a dull, but slightly encouraged thought, Harry took notice that Snape was a hell of a lot better teaching Defense than he was Potions or Occlumency.

"Acceptable for the first lesson." Snape did not look too peachy about acknowledging Harry's shield and threw a few more hexes his way to make sure it was not beginner's luck.

The dueling went on for another twenty minutes and by the end, Harry was sweaty and out of breath. Snape had come at him fiercely from all directions, even at one point apparating behind him (which left Harry, who knew of Hogwarts' anti-apparation wards, momentarily boggled). When it finally came time to leave, he was about to run out the door before the sadistic bastard could cast anything else at him, but he took a moment to address the man.

"I would never send my friends in to fight for me." he said simply, but sternly, adding on a quick 'sir,' as an afterthought.

The room was quiet once more and Harry met Snape's eyes unwaveringly.

It was not really a staring contest, because the man's eyes seemed to be searching for something in his own. As time sluggishly rolled by, Harry could feel himself heat up and he gulped under the intensity of the stare. Snape's eyes were calculating, unforgiving.

Harry felt as if he were being stripped naked and suddenly was about to be subjected to Snape's will.

But, the man did not respond until Harry turned to leave.

"Potter."

Snape abruptly threw something his way and Harry praised the Quiddich gods for his seeker reflexes as his hand caught the item unconciously.

It was a glass vial full of the ruby potion Snape had been making upon his arrival.

Harry blinked owlishly at the Professor. "What is it?"

"Just drink it." The man sneered at him, giving him a look like he was the most annoying vermin known to man.

Shrugging, Harry popped it open and tossed it down his throat like a shot. His tongue quivered at the sour taste and he fought not to cough the sludge back up.

He waited for something drastic to occur. But...nothing did...he felt pretty much the same...

"Sir?" he questioned, not really wanting to imply that what the man made did not work.

Snape raised a mocking eyebrow in his direction. "You are dismissed, Potter. Leave the vial behind and be gone already. I have no further need to tolerate your presence."

Harry bristled, scoffing as he roughly smacked the glass vial on a desk and stomped out. If he would have looked behind him, he would have seen Severus watch him in satisfaction as the bruise on his face faded away without any evidence of it ever existing.

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_A/N: So, I like the length of this chapter more than the others. I personally hate reading short chapters, so I will try to get these chapters more lengthy for you. _

_I will be kind of speeding up the story next chapter, I believe...so...er. Get excited. _

_Special thanks to asdf, Meany, anime-fan-ftw, Just A Keepsake, and Tokugawa Blitzer for reviewing! Means a lot :D! _

_Please, let me know how you are liking it!_

**_REVIEW_**

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	5. Chapter Five

_Summary, warnings, pairings, dislaimer...all located in first chapter and continue to apply to the entire story. _

_A/N: Hey! Welcome to chapter 5, in which I promised to quicken the pace...but then decided that it would be bad for the plot! My bad. Hope you enjoy anyhow!_

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Chapter Five

Over the past week, Harry had taken up the strange habit of going to the library.

By now, Harry had finished reading through his class textbooks and in between his lessons with Snape, he had forced himself to finish his Potions homework. It was during his first few days at Hogwarts that Harry took notice of how much free time he had here. Being in the castle was unlike staying at the Dursleys. With his relatives, his summer passed quickly as he engaged in the routine household chores, but living in Gryffindor Tower, Harry did not have a list of things to do. Sure, Snape gave him homework, but other than that, there was nothing else to keep him occupied. Most of the professors and other staff did not live on campus during summer vacation and those who did usually kept to themselves.

Occasionally, Harry would see Dumbledore in the castle, walking to and fro doing whatever it is that headmasters do during the summer. At meals in the Great Hall, Harry was reunited with Snape, Filch, and Moody. The trio was not exactly a loquacious crowd, so most of the meals were filled with somewhat loony and goofy anecdotes from Professor Dumbledore and Harry laughing politely.

Harry spent a good deal of time exploring the castle, but his feet would only comply so much before they ached with tiredness. Harry had wanted to visit Hagrid, but the half-giant was off somewhere else and would return only at the beginning of the new term.

When Harry realized that the only true company he had all day was with Snape, he concluded that he absolutely had to develop a hobby, so least he could maintain his sanity. Although, Snape had not been that intolerable, so far. Yes, the man still had an attitude and never hesitated to tell him when he was doing something wrong and to what extent his wrongness breached, but all insults had, for the most part, been related to their DADA remedial coursework. Snape usually regarded him with distain in the start of class with an expression that said that he could be doing something more time-worthy right now, and the man would still roll his eyes and mock him when he fudged a spell, but Harry had discovered something quite interesting.

As soon as they engaged in active dueling, gone was the Snape he knew and in filtered a stoic, yet different man. Harry would not go so far as to say that the bloke had a personality disorder, but he could honestly see a change in Snape's mannerisms when they dueled. He could not really explain it, but Snape's aura seemed to shift and the atmosphere around him would take on an almost dangerous lick. Snape was not very sarcastic in duels, something that Harry appreciated. Though the man baited him at times, the majority of his comments were educationally based. Simple, unbridled commands on what he had to do to improve his spellwork.

And they worked.

Harry had been sure that these lessons would go like his Occlumency and Potions lessons had, where Snape would torture him gruelingly on information he never learned and could never retain. But, even though Snape kept his 'hands-on' approach, he actually explained things. This was something Harry could get used to.

Now that he thought on it, it had surprised him, actually. Snape usually talked very little in Potions class, starting it off with an introduction before leaving the students to follow their textbooks and pray for success, then later, he would use every sharp comment in the book to break down their self-esteem.

Harry was starting to realize maybe why Snape so desperately wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor position each year. Even with the curt explanations, lacking his usual flowery verbiage, Harry could detect the passion behind them, piecing his words together.

Yes. Harry had no doubt that Snape was amazing with potions; it was a given, considering that the man was literally the youngest Potions Master of the century. And from that small moment when Harry had witnessed Snape brewing, it was obvious that the man's skill could not be surpassed. Snape engaged in Potions with such a dexterity and decorum that it appeared to be as second-nature as walking to him.

But, Snape also had a frightening ability for dueling. It was stock clear. Harry did not know if perhaps it was all his experience or if he had always been like this, but when Snape spun on him, the room changed. Snape approached dueling with such an intense tranquility and focus that it projected to everything in the vicinity. Snape's presence commanded concentration and forced his student's mind to live in the present. There was no time to ponder in a duel, there was only time to observe and take action.

Harry had, scarily, begun to look forward to their time together as the only time his racing mind would settle.

Harry's thinking had gotten worse. He was on the verge of admitting that his thoughts about Voldemort were bordering obsessive. And if Harry was not thinking of what Voldemort was doing, or what the Order was doing, or what Sirius _would have_ been doing, he was thinking about what he _should_ be doing.

This brought him to the library.

He felt too guilty flying with his Firebolt out in the open for long. He should be stocking up on what he needed to know so he could actually survive a Death Eater attack. Besides, who knew when Voldemort was going to make his move?

Well. He certainly did not.

And if other people knew, they were not telling him.

So, Harry gathered that at the moment, he was his own everything. He was his own informant and he was his own cheerleader. He had to motivate himself to keep learning, to keep doing, to keep moving, because if he stayed still for too long, it would be his downfall.

The first time Harry had gone to the library, he had walked around aimlessly, not really knowing what to do. Madame Pince was gone and Harry was left alone with millions of rows of books. Harry only knew two sections: the Sports section and the Restricted Section. This was enough evidence to prove that he was not quite library-savvy.

So, for the remainder of the time of his first visit, Harry sat in between the shelves not really knowing where to start. His second visit, Harry tried to relate this to his summer. He did not like to read, but he had read all of his textbooks. The only thing he had to do was pick up a book and open it to page one. It was that simple. So, his first book had been about Hexes.

And it grew from there. When Harry realized that reading about Hexes had not been too painful, he gathered the courage to explore things he had always wanted to know about. The next book was on healing. The book after that was on animagus transformation.

He did not bother reading each book word by word. He was still too lazy to do that and there was no need to brain cells on reading filler sentences. After all, he was not Hermione Granger. But, he skimmed the unimportant information and focused on what he thought were the major points.

It was on his fourth visit that he decided that he should take notes.

If things kept progressing as such, Harry felt he could be somewhat prepared for his next Voldemort encounter.

This eased him. A little bit.

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Severus sat waiting for Potter.

Their lesson had started promptly eight minutes ago. And Potter was late.

Tardiness was unacceptable.

Four minutes past their designated start time, Severus had begun to pace. He almost bashed his head into the dungeon's stone walls when he recognized the twanging of nerves in his stomach and fingertips. He was restless.

Severus had long ago given up the ability to feel nervous, as being who he was, was simply not compatible with butterflies. So, instead, he had taken up being restless. But, why was he restless? The answer was stupidly simple.

Potter was late and Potter had never been late before. Since the start of their remedial courses, Potter had been, if anything, early.

And, now that he was eight—no!—ten minutes late, Severus quite bitterly realized he was slightly concerned for the brat's wellbeing.

It was a logical response, he surmised. Severus would be concerned for any daft individual who was unable to arrive to an appointment punctually when the only obstacle that stood in their way was an empty castle, free of bodily traffic.

When the boy did come to, he would lecture him accordingly.

He sighed briskly.

Potter and he had formed somewhat of an unspoken truce after their first lesson together. When the boy had turned to Severus and told him bluntly that he would not allow others to shield him, Severus had seen something frighteningly real. There, burning in those bright jade eyes was the radiating power of determination.

But, Potter had always been determined. In fact, his best quality in the past had been that the teenager was full of Gryffindor bullheadedness and always finished the task presented. That is how he survived his episodes with the philosopher's stone, the Chamber of Secrets, the Tri-Wizard Tournament, the Department of Mysteries…

Severus was brilliant at reading people. What kind of double agent would be if he had not perfected the art of testing character and detecting emotions? If he had not, he would not have made it this far. War was a game in which you trusted no one and everyone at the same time. If Severus had not been adept at observation, he would have never come to Dumbledore and expected to live. Severus Snape knew how other minds functioned better than he knew how his own did.

Hence, Severus had seen behind the determination in Potter's eyes and he saw something greater. Something that he begrudgingly respected because he would have to be an oaf to not see that Potter had done some maturing over the years.

He had seen acceptance.

Not everyone's eyes were the windows to their souls, but Potter's definitely were. He wore his emotions on his face: those wide green eyes were almost excessively expressive, so Severus could see clear as daylight that when Potter had grasped the prophecy in his hands, he had truly heard what Sybil predicted. Potter knew that there was no escaping his fate.

And when he had stared into Potter's eyes, in some outlandish way, Severus was reminded of himself.

The thought that he and Potter were not too different whispered fleetingly into his ear.

And so Potter had been coming to each lesson with a new eagerness to learn. The boy was not exactly a sponge, but he picked things up fairly quickly. With effort. He would arrive with the same determination each class. And it, surprisingly, did not waver as Severus had expected it to.

He also arrived on time. Which right now was not the case.

Severus would not admit that DADA lessons with Potter had become the highlight of his day. Because they had not. The professor was accustomed to spending the summer alone, only leaving the dungeons to meet with Dumbledore, the Order, or the Death Eaters. Usually, by the end of the summer, when the castle filled with bumbling students, he would lament the loss of his personal life. Severus was an introvert and he enjoyed his time working alone. But, Potter's presence had not been entirely excruciating.

His tardiness, however, was irritating.

Even though Severus had forced himself to sit, his foot tapped relentlessly. What if something happened to Potter? What if the Dark Lord had planned something without his knowledge? What if the idiot had tripped down the moving staircases? Merlin knew that the kid was still as clumsy as he always was; Potter had two left feet and stomped around with the elegance of a three-headed stork. Just because Potter had a change of heart did not mean he was a different person. He was still arrogant and accident prone…just a pinch less sloth.

He snorted. A few dueling sessions, Severus had not even had to use his wand to throw Potter off his feet. Sometimes, Potter just fell by himself.

Quite farcical, indeed.

As the minutes droned on, Severus knew the real reason why he could not sit in peace was because with every second the child was not on time, he came up with dozens of possible scenarios that could have been the reason for his lateness—all of which ended with an image of Harry Potter with a bruise on his cheek.

And it bothered him to say the least.

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Harry was running. No. He was bloody sprinting.

Snape was going to chop his head off and feed him to the merpeople. He just knew it! He was twenty minutes late and he could already see the man devising a maniacal plot to murder him.

When he ran through the door of the Potions classroom, he expected an Avada Kedavra to be aimed straight for his head. But, the sight he came to was even scarier.

Snape was leaning casually against his desk, one of his long legs hooked over the other, mirroring the way his arms crossed over his chest. And he made eye contact with Harry upon arrival. Harry saw out of the corner of his eye that Snape already had his wand in hand, but the man's eyes pierced him into a frozen state. He should be grabbing his as well, but instead he watched with something akin to horror in as Snape uncrossed his ankles and stood.

The eyes never left his as Snape circled his desk and sat in the chair.

"Mister Potter." He said calmly, but his tone suggested a sadistic promise. The man raised his eyebrows as if he just saw Harry walk in. "How nice of you to join me."

Fuck. Snape was pissed. Why was Harry so careless? Perhaps, he secretly desired to be in detention with Filch for the remainder of his life.

Snape looked menacing and Harry suddenly felt like a specimen under a microscope. He resisted the urge to pull at his collar and fidget as he regarded the man cautiously. Maybe if he apologized to the git, then he could, Snape would understand. The man had shown a semblance of patience before.

"I'm sorry, Profressor!" he huffed, still out of breath. "It's just that I was in the library and, uh, well, I fell asleep and I lost track of t-time," Snape's glare intensified tenfold and Harry suddenly felt like he should explain further, "because…because…well, I was sleeping….Er."

Words of brilliance, he sarcastically told himself. Now, Snape was going to rip him to shreds! He would not live to face Voldmort because Snape was going to slay him and package his innards in an—

Harry paused here and mentally slapped himself across the face. Hard.

Why, exactly, did he feel like a Hufflepuff before a dragon? He was never afraid of Snape before. If anything, he challenged him. He had a feeling Sirius was looking down at him with outrage and he gathered himself. It is not like he was trying to impress the man. He was late. That was that. So what? They could not change it now.

He watched as Snape's eyes looked him over.

"I fell asleep while studying. Sorry." He stated in a matter of fact tone and instantly, he regretted it.

Snape rose, his palms pressed against his desktop and Harry witnessed a familiar and unpleasant sight as the man's face contorted in fury.

"Let me get his straight, Potter." Snape whispered darkly. "Your tardiness is thanks to your egotistic lethargy."

Harry felt fire rip through him and he stepped forward, ready to retort, but Snape's tongue was quicker.

"You thought it acceptable to postpone my class without consideration to the minor detail that I take time out of my full schedule to graciously tutor you so you can hopefully stand on two feet the day that the Dark Lord thrusts upon you reality? Hmm?" Snape's hair fell into his eyes, shadowing his face in a disturbing veil of anger. "Potter, the world does not cater to you. You are not the center of the universe and your impudence and ego must accept the fact that people are not obliged to gravitate around your needs. Next time you decide to follow in your selfish father's footsteps, do your adoring public a favor and recognize that you need to set your own alarm clock and assume responsibility. Other people cannot do everything for you. "

"No!" Harry shouted, unable to contain his temper. "That's not the reason. It wasn't my idea to purposefully come late to class—I've been on time this entire week! I don't expect anyone to cater to me! No one bloody has and I never want them to! I don't expect anything. You always bloody blow things out of context, Snape! I just fell as-"

Snape chuckled deeply. "You fell asleep. I know. Congratulations, Potter. Next time you fall asleep, you'll be lucky if you wake. Do you think this is a game, boy? You cannot be late for a duel. It will mean your death."

Harry felt the tension erect around them and he watched as Snape pushed himself back into his seat. Snape's free hand pushed his hair behind his ear and his eyes never left their target. Harry was abruptly unsure of how to approach the situation. Was Snape belittling him or had he suddenly made this a lesson?

Harry's emerald eyes washed over Snape's face, but his expression never gave anything away. His high cheekbones and jaw were set and his lips sat in their usual downturned fashion. Harry felt the anger in him dissipate and suddenly the fatigue that had brought on his half an hour nap rose to life again.

He never knew what the hell Snape was doing. The man was so complicated. Snape always seemed to grab his evidence out of thin air. Harry was not a narcissist. Harry was not selfish, was he?

Harry blinked. He did not want to fight. This bickering was childish and energy consuming. Unless he was planning to verbally spare Voldemort to death, he did not want to pay attention anymore. Snape and he had always exchanged insults and now was no different than before, expect for now, Harry desired to be the better person. He had to let go.

"I had no intention of being selfish. I have not been sleeping properly for a long time, when I say I lost track of time, I meant it." he stated. "I didn't mean to disrespect you. You're right, I can't be sleeping when the time calls for dueling. It won't happen again."

It was not exactly an apology. But, Harry prayed it would suffice. He was losing valuable time right now by arguing over stupidity.

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At dinner later that day, Severus sat with Moody to his right and Albus to his left. It was a pet peeve of his to be sandwiched between two bodies, but Albus had happily waltzed to his side and plopped down talking some rubbish about the weather.

Severus normally sat on the end of the bench for the simple reason that it was a tactical advantage. If unwanted company came in, those on the end would prove to have enough space to rise quickly to their feet without the hindrance of bumping into others on their way.

He _always_ sat on the end, not because enemies were likely to infiltrate Hogwarts at this time of year (although the possibility always stands), but because Moody's huffing and Albus' bumbling were almost too much to handle at once. He always required some hope of a swift, promising getaway because even those with the most patience could not withstand this. Needless to say, Snape's bad mood got worse given the present situation.

"Ah!" he heard Albus call, "Harry, my boy! Come, come! Have a seat with us at this table."

Severus could barely contain a snort as Albus gestured wildly and Potter shuffled to sit across from him. In the summer, the house elves took the four of the five tables of the Great Hall to the kitchens for polishing and would leave behind one table to accommodate summer guests. Of course the brat was going to sit with them at their table. There was no other table

Sipping on his water, Severus eyed Potter he fell into the bench and smiled crookedly at Albus. The grin was halfhearted, he could tell, but Potter's eyes softened with fondness as he greeted them all, mostly Albus, with a soft, "good evening, Professors."

It did not take long for Albus to engage Potter in a conversation about the newest acai berry tea the house elves had presented him with this morning. Severus would have felt pity for the boy, but he concluded that it was better Potter than him. He already had ten minutes to appreciate the Headmaster spiraling into senility. Now, it was Potter's turn to deal with him.

Severus nodded impassively as Moody grumbled something and moved down to where Professor Sinistra was sitting with Poppy.

Having nothing else to do, Severus allowed himself to observe Potter with hawkish eyes.

The boy had surprised him before by apologizing and Severus was now under the suspicion that Potter wanted something. After all, nothing was for free. Everything had a price.

Potter was focused on whatever madness Albus was spewing. His hair was sitting messily on his head and Severus wondered if Potter had ever come in contact with a comb. Or, perhaps, the concept of self-hygiene was lost on today's youth?

Severus was mildly surprised that Potter's face had no acne. James Potter, at his son's present age, had been gifted with a most unfortunate complexion. Severus gleefully remembered James battling with his clogged pores and hormones as he approached the age of sixteen. It had been a glorious year in which Potter Senior had had some trouble rallying up the usual floozies that hung at his heels.

Severus forked his steak.

Potter seemed to have biologically inherited his mother's clear face. Lily had rarely seen a pimple.

Severus chewed, eyeing the boy critically.

Actually, Potter did not look as much like his father as Severus had seen in the eleven year old that had marched into Hogwarts. Back then, Snape had seen James Potter's miniature, but it seems that as the boy aged, he presented more of Lily's traits.

Sure, Harry had Potter's dark hair, but he lacked his father's tan skin tone. The Potters were a long line of curiously tan Brits, but Harry no doubt, had Lily's paleness. Yet, Lily had freckles dusting her arms as a child. Harry had none that Severus could see.

Onyx eyes took in the boy's baggy shirt and jeans. He could have sworn Potter wore that shirt three days ago. But, oddly, Severus had difficulty differentiating between Potter's collection of clothing. All of his pieces seemed to be oversized and of poor quality. At first, he had suspected that Potter was simply adorning himself in common clothes as not to ruin his own during dueling practice, but as he saw the boy more and more around the castle, Severus had a suspicion that they were everyday attire.

Severus sneered. The clothes were obviously not his size and hung down Potter's skinny frame absurdly. Perhaps, it was a muggle trend.

He did not dwell on it.

Severus bit his lip, holding back an acidic comment as Albus bumped his cup. "Oh! So sorry, Severus. Forgive an old man, I daresay my eyesight is dwindling nowadays."

Albus adjusted his moon-shaped spectacles , taking it upon himself to move Severus' cup to an out of reach spot. It was then that the Headmaster took in Harry's empty plate.

"Harry! I believe I should extend my apologies to you as well. I did not realize that I was talking up a storm, please, fill your plate, child. Don't let my stories distract you from the meal you came for."

As Albus chuckled, Severus watched as Potter reassured him that it was not his fault. Albus kept talking, and Severus freely watched as Potter mechanically dumped exactly one spoonful of white rice, one spoonful of green beans, and one slice of unbuttered bread onto his plate. Eyes still on Albus, Potter reached for the bread and nibbled on it silently.

The Gryffindor did not have Lily's lips, although he had her oval face. The lips were not James Potter's either, though the high, aristocratic cheekbones were clear evidence of pureblood heritage. Severus noted in the back of his mind that Lily and James' thin lips were gone with history, because Harry's lips were full. With his perceptive mind, he recalled an image of a young Mrs. Evans with the same bow shaped lips, painted bright red with lipstick of the muggle glamor. It seems Potter had inherited something from his grandmother.

Severus clicked his tongue.

Potter did not eat as much as one would expect a growing teenage boy to eat. It was a theme Severus noted each meal he ate with Potter in close vicinity. Was it a summer thing or was he like this all year? Severus was thoughtful. During the year, there were too many students to monitor food consumption and if he ever harbored a desire to watch Potter eat, he would be driven to look away or be queasy at the sight of the Weasley child stuffing himself.

Severus would have expected a stomach virus to be the cause if he had not witnessed Potter expertly pushing his food around with his fork. For the next twenty minutes, Severus was fairly impressed with the manner in which Potter made it look like he was actually eating, though in reality only swallowed a few bites of food. It was a grand charade of piling the food in one corner of his plate, reaching for his napkin, moving the food to another side, taking a sip of pumpkin juice, smiling, taking a small bite of bread, napkin, and repeat.

Interesting.

What would Potter gain pretending to eat?

If Severus was pretending to eat, then the logical reason behind it would be to assuage unwanted concern and divert undesired attention.

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Harry sat sipping on tea with Professor Dumbledore.

Fawkes was trilling softly, primping her feathers as Dumbledore played with a lemon drop, of course, standardly offering one to Harry.

"Harry," Dumbledore smiled. "I'm glad you could make it. I can't help but notice you have taken up a rather busy regimen this past week."

Harry smiled back, nodding behind his tea before taking another long swing of the boiling cuppa, enjoying how the hot drink warmed him. Harry enjoyed Dumbledore's presence. The man always seemed to know what was going on around him and often knew just what Harry needed. In this case, it had been a cup of tea.

With sleepy eyes, Harry waiting for the old man to fix his own tea with sugar.

"How are your lessons with Professor Snape faring, my boy?"

Harry shrugged. It had been a few days since his fight, if you could call it that, with Snape. Since then, Snape had calmed down, but spent the entire time looking for errors in his casting. The whole lesson would pass by with Snape hovering over him, looking at him like an evaluation.

"They're okay," he told Dumbledore. "I mean. We do one spell at a time. I learn a new one each day, practice it for half of the lesson, and then we spend the last half dueling to review."

"Do you feel as if you are being challenged adequately?"

Harry frowned lightly. "Um. Well, the lessons aren't…easy." Harry had virtually stopped sleeping two days ago. Completely. And during the new free time he acquired, he had been thinking about his DADA lessons. It felt like Snape was moving too slow. Or maybe it just felt slow in comparison to Occlumency with Snape. Or maybe everything just felt like it was moving slowly because he was awake ninety eight percent of the day.

"Yes?" Albus urged him, sipping his own tea.

Harry used his free hand to rub the back of his neck. "Well. I just feel like we should be moving a bit quicker. That's all."

Dumbledore nodded agreeably. "Is Professor Snape spending too much time reviewing material you feel is easy for you?

"No," Harry looked up. "Not really that. I mean, all of the stuff we learn is pretty new to me and he gives me adequate time to…not just perform he spells, but to perfect them, I guess. Which is good, it's just that I feel like…I don't know. We should be doing more?"

Harry looked up at Dumbledore, hoping that the man would just sort of know what he was thinking, without him having to explain. He felt somewhat incoherent lately.

"Ah, I see. Perhaps, we should double the lesson time, allowing you to learn twice the amount in one day to accelerate the process a bit. Is that more what you're leaning towards?"

Harry paused to gather his thoughts. He felt like learning one spell a day was okay, if he was learning on his own. But, with a teacher, his time should be spent more usefully. Harry could learn a spell a day and did, purely by reading his library books. He could manage figuring out how to work one spell. With instruction, however, Harry felt like he should be learning twice as much because he had someone there to explain it to him. If he doubled his time with Snape, he could get so much more done.

Dumbledore smiled somewhat knowingly at Harry, his face looking tired as well. "I do believe that this could be a most positive thing. Doubling the lesson time will be beneficial to you, Harry."

Harry nodded vehemently and Dumbledore gazed upon him amicably before straightening up with a twinkling eyes.

"Now! I requested you here for several reasons, Harry. There are a few things I'd like to share with you."

Putting down his empty tea cup, Harry perked to attention and waited for the man to continue.

"The first thing I wanted to talk to you about Is our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I think you'll be quite pleased to know that his one will not be after your tail." Dumbledore laughed wistfully. "Alastor Moody has agreed, after much persuasion, to take up the DADA position."

Harry felt the utmost relief pour into him. No more demented teachers trying to murder him. Could this perhaps, be a normal school year? He snorted.

"However. There is a slight issue. Professor Moody, as you know, is an important member of the Order and as…happenings occur more and more frequently, the Order has become busier than ever. It will be more than likely that we will have to send Professor Moody away for missions that will require his expertise. Hence, I have taken it upon myself to employ the first ever Teacher's Aid in Hogwarts' history. This way, when Professor Moody is absent, his position will be taken over by a familiar face."

"And who will you be bringing in?" Harry hoped greatly for no surprises. If Dumbledore brought in another Death Eater by accident, he might just abandon ship.

"Remus Lupin."

For the first time in a while, Harry felt a strange, wide toothy grin etch on his face. "Are you serious? That's fantastic, sir! But, how did you do it? Professor Lupin told me that many of the parents would not stand for a werewolf in the school?"

Dumbledore looked mischievous, but held the same sincere tone. "Now, Harry. I have had contact with the parents of Hogwarts' children and after explaining Remus' true person, the majority were agreeable and quite willing to accept him. So long as he is treated with Wolfsbane upon his off days, he does not pose a threat to the students. Besides, believe it or not, many of the parents preferred Remus to the other options that lie in the open."

Sure, in comparison to all of Dumbledore's other picks, Remus was the most normal. No doubt the parents would want him and not another Umbridge or Quirrell. A regulated werewolf was a lot easier to tame than the Ministry or Voldemort incognito.

Harry squirmed, his stomach doubtful. "You can't tell me people like Malfoy prefer Remus?"

Dumbledore caught his eyes solemnly. "Lucius Malfoy does not rule this school, Harry. He may have influence in shadows, but Hogwarts has always shed light upon a person's true colors. Besides, I do have the inkling that Lucius will be kept occupied enough this year."

His ears practically popped up and Harry leaned forward. "Why? What's happening? Is he planning something?"

Dumbledore waved a hand his direction. "Do not concern yourself with this, Harry, my boy. It is summer. A brilliant time to focus on oneself and reflect on what and where we want to be, not what and where others are going."

Harry could not help but seethe silently. Yet, his Headmaster continued unperturbed.

Standing carefully, the man opened a drawer and reached inside. "There is something I'd like you to have."

He pulled out a large book with a worn ruby cover and a fraying gold title and handed it to Harry.

"_The Wizarding World's Complete Encyclopedia of Tracked Genealogy, _written by Edwin Brekslack." He read slowly before peering up at Dumbledore with obvious confusion.

Dumbledore wiped off a bit of the dust covering its spine. "Yes, I found it in quite an interesting place during my last travel, a week before you came to Hogwarts for your vacation."

"Ah, I see…"

Tugging at his beard, Dumbledore continued. "I do insist that you'll take good care of it since it does seem to be suffering from mistreatment," he gestured at the peeling side. "Especially since it is such a unique book, possibly one of the few of its kind."

Harry tried not to shrug, looking at the dead weight in his hands. "Genealogy," he read again. "Like, genes? DNA?"

"Like family trees," Dumbledore corrected teasingly. "Genealogy is a record, or an account, of the ancestry and descent of a person; a record of lineage, if you will. This book in particular focuses on the genealogy of pureblood Wizarding families."

Harry nodded, not really knowing what to say. Why exactly would be want this?

Dumbledore sat once more, grabbing the book from Harry's hands and placing it on the desk before them. He peeled back the cover and revealed the first page. It was a table of contents in alphabetical order—a list of what Harry guessed were surnames. "Take out your wand, Harry."

He did so unquestioningly.

"Now, place the tip of your wand onto the page and say the name of a pureblood family."

Harry followed the instructions, not really hesitating. A pureblood family? Well he knew some snotty ones off the tip of his tongue. "Malfoy."

He jumped back, startled, when the book flipped its own pages. For a second the page was empty before green ink began to appear. It reminded Harry nastily of his second year. He and Dumbledore watched as names were written out in old fashioned calligraphy, one by one, in a tree. As he watched, Harry remembered the Black tapestry, in the way it portrayed lineage. The same format appeared here: underneath each name was the according date of birth and death and lines were drawn to show marriages and offspring.

Harry turned the page, following the ink as sit kept writing names and more names. The Malfoy line went on forever.

"A most curious thing." Dumbledore whispered breaking Harry's gaze. The man's eyes were stern, but inquisitive as if he were trying to complete a puzzle.

"What is it, sir?"

A sigh. "This book, Harry, is made from very old magic. It has no doubt been around a very long time and its creation must have been achieved with a great deal of effort. It's a seemingly harmless tool." Dumbledore caught his eyes again. "Unless in the wrong hands."

Dumbledore suddenly had his wand in hand and tapped the book in the midst of its writing.

"Gaunt." He said softly.

Harry watched in fascination as the pages flipped again and the Gaunt line was etched into existence. Dumbledore pointed quietly the last collection of names.

_Merope Gaunt _**_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_****_∞_******___Thomas Riddle_

_c.1907 - 12/13/1926 ****__—_**_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_****_—_**_c. 1905-c.1943_

_stat. Pureblood ****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—****__—_ _stat__. Muggle_

_Thomas Marvolo Riddle_

_12/13/1926 -_

_stat. Halfblood _

"Voldemort's name is in here." Harry's voice broke the silence.

"Yes." Dumbledore nodded. "Of course. As would yours be and mine as well. Any and all pureblood descendants are automatically recorded in this book."

Harry shifted and he reverted into the persona he adopted when he spend his hours in the library, filing through hexes and their history and piecing their importance together.

"There's no date of death for Tom Riddle Jr. If someone gets a hold of this book, they could see plainly that Voldemort isn't a pureblood." Harry sat up almost cheerfully. "If a pureblood sees this, they'd flip right? Realize that Voldemort is a hypocrite? And they'd all feel ridiculous—I mean what pureblood follows a halfblood's reign?"

Dumbledore hummed. "It is not common knowledge that Tom Riddle is Lord Voldemort."

Harry scoffed. "It's not that hard to figure out! I mean, Gaunt is a known descendent of Slytherin. And Voldemort speaks parseltongue. How can you not figure it out given the information?"

There was a knock on the door.

"Ah! That would be Minerva now." Dumbledore sprung up and gone was the ominous atmosphere. With a flick, he closed the book and pushed it to Harry.

"I do hate to cut our meeting short, Harry, but I have to speak with Professor McGonagall on private terms. I think doubling your time with Professor Snape is doable and certainly, I approve. The only thing left to do is obtain Professor Snape's consent. If I were you, I would ask him as soon as possible. Preferably, later in the day, as Severus is not a morning person."

Harry was ushered out the door, passing a very strict looking McGonagall who was gripping a paper in her hand.

"Do take care of that book for me, Harry. I believe it is quite special."

Later that night, Harry wrapped the book in his invisibility cloak and dumped it in the bottom of his trunk. It was cool and all, and obviously needed strict guarding, according to Dumbledore .Although part of him just wanted to send the whole story to Rita Skeeter, Harry could keep it from prying eyes. It would not be that hard considering it was not really that interesting past the Gaunt page.

Harry did not really see how it could be in anyway useful. So, left it in exchange for picking up his new library book: Ignatius Zappery's _Hexes Gone Wild_.

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_A/N: SPECIAL THANKS TO: Alexander Lacreta, HarryPotterFan05, , anon, Just A Keepsake, GaleNapier, deadwinds, Katie, Tokugawa Blitzer for reviewing! Thank you, thank you; As I said before and will continue to say, it means a lot and I very much appreciate it! _

_Sorry for the wait. I was busy with some family events. Those brief moments in which I have a social life... XD_

_Soooo...am I holding your interest? _

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**_REVIEW!_**


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